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FORTUNATA 


FORTUNATA 


A  NOVEL 


BY 
MARJORIE   PATTERSON 


^ 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 

MCMXl 


eOPVUIOHT.   lOtl.  BY   HARPER  S   BROTHERS 

PRINTBD  IN  THC   UNITED  STATES  OF   AMERICA 

PUBLISHED   FEBRUARY.    ISII 


FORTUNATA 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  the  intervals  of  backbitings  and  scandals  the 
Princess  Colibri  had  yet  found  time  to  discover 
that  her  niece  Fortunata  was  growing  up  to  be 
an  ignorant  young  barbarian.  Though  indolent  in 
nothing  else,  the  drudgery  of  mental  work  revolted 
her.  Like  most  foreign  children,  she  spoke  several 
languages — English,  French,  and  German,  fluently; 
also  a  little  Spanish.  She  had  need  of  solitude; 
she  was  lonely  only  when  in  a  crowd.  Her  sister 
Francesca,  a  commonplace,  unattractive  child,  she 
avoided.  Francesca's  flaxen  braids,  her  prominent 
blue  eyes,  her  nails  cut  down  to  the  quick,  her 
systematic  thumpings  of  the  piano,  her  conscientious 
self-instruction,  her  unimaginative  outlook — ^all  this 
was  contemptible  to  Fortunata. 

In  the  apartments  haunted  by  evil-eyed  rats, 
where  mysterious  draughts  shook  the  tapestries  and 
the  plumed  crests  of  the  armor,  where  the  trees  of 
the  garden  kept  tap-rapping  on  the  windows  in  warn- 
ing, Fortunata  perched  on  the  sill  and  gave  herself  up 
to  thought.  With  her  throat  stretched  out,  her  face 
turned  up,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  rafters,  she  sug- 

I 


2137714 


FORTUNATA 

gested  a  little  dog  baying ^t  the  moon.  In  thought, 
she  rescued  her  enemies  from  flaming  houses.  Her 
rivals  she  saved  from  beneath  the  hoofs  of  trampling 
horses.  All  thanks  she  declined  with  a  simple  elo- 
quence, the  mere  thought  of  which  brought  to  her 
eyes  tears  of  admiration. 

Though  pale,  she  was  a  healthy  child,  and  was 
never  ill.  She  wrote  her  will;  so  beautifully  was  it 
worded  that  she  wept  and  revelled  in  emotion.  She 
never  enjoyed  herself  more.  She  courted  the  spirits 
of  darkness;  she  longed  to  raise  the  dead;  she  en- 
vied Hamlet,  who  had  seen  his  father's  ghost.  Next 
to  evoking  tjtie  devil,  she  yearned  to  behold  her  father, 
and  never  went  to  bed  without  this  impressive  invo- 
cation: "Ugo  Constantino  d'Estradde  Rivallo,  spirit 
of  my  father,  appear!  Haunt  me  this  night  and  re- 
veal the  secrets  of  the  tomb!"  But  never  did  any 
sheeted  form  arise  to  stalk  about  her  bed. 

Miss  Billford,  the  governess,  a  gentle,  old  English 
lady  belonging  to  the  now  extinct  type  that  wore  a 
black  bombazine  dress  and  had  the  "Flight  Out  of 
Egypt"  depicted  on  a  brooch,  grew  greatly  troubled 
— her  eldest  pupil  had  no  religion.  When  Fortunata 
was  eleven  and  Eugenio,  her  brother,  nine,  they  de- 
termined to  shake  off  the  shackles  of  the  Church  and 
to  become  atheists.  Antonia,  their  elder  half-sister, 
was  wont  to  hold  forth  on  her  fervent  religious  feel- 
ings, but  the  two  children  would  shrug  their  shoul- 
ders, roll  up  their  eyes,  puff  out  their  cheeks,  and 
mutely  express  derision.  Although  a  staunch  Epis- 
copalian and  holding  all  "popery"  as  fire  and  brim- 
stone, nevertheless,  Miss  Billford,  good  soul,  thought 
it  her  duty  to  go  the  round  of  the  Catholic  churches 


FORTUNATA 

of  Rome,  striving  to  light  in  her  charge  some  spark 
of  faith — with  what  success  can  be  imagined. 

Fortimata  took  a  craze  for  reading.  She  de- 
voured French,  ItaHan,  and  English  novels;  trag- 
edies, comedies,  and  poems.  She  lived  these  books. 
She  was  all  the  heroines  and  in  love  with  all  the 
heroes.  In  the  unoccupied  bedroom  she  chose  to 
make  her  library  there  was  a  painting  that  aroused 
her  imagination.  In  a  wild  and  sombre  garden 
a  young  man  kissed  a  stone  Sphinx  who  held 
him  encircled  in  her  savage  forepaws.  The  boy's 
head  was  thrown  back,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the 
leaves  his  eyes  gleamed  with  an  ardent  and  caress- 
ing light.  This  painting  penetrated  Fortimata  with 
sadness.  She  felt  the  loss  of  something  wonderful, 
dimly  remembered,  the  passion  of  a  former  life,  per- 
haps, the  like  of  which  she  would  never  find  again. 

Suddenly,  one  day,  she  had  a  mortifying  thought. 
Here  she  was  thirteen  and  had  never  loved!  Oh, 
shameful!  Many  of  Scott's  heroines  were  married 
by  the  time  they  were  sixteen.  Whom  could  she 
love?  She  considered,  and  remembered  a  blond 
English  boy,  a  friend  of  Eugenio's,  whose  cleanly 
smell  of  soap  and  well-cut  Eton  clothes  had  charmed 
her. 

On  the  Princess's  reception  day  he  came  to  call 
on  Fortunata.  The  children  passed  the  evening 
on  the  stairs,  and  as  the  grandees  stalked  through 
the  hall  beneath,  they  entertained  themselves  by 
spitting  on  the  heads  of  the  nobility.  Qui  n'a  pas 
sa  terre  promise,  son  jour  d'extase  et  sa  fin  dans  Vexil 
was  Fortunata' s  chant  for  the  next  month.  Her  jour 
d'eoUase  was  that  remembered  Thursday.    Her  fin 

3 


FORTUNATA 

dans  Vexil  followed  soon.  The  Colibri,  as  the  Prin- 
cess was  called,  after  the  Italian  fashion,  announced 
that  she  had  decided  to  send  her  niece  to  a  French 
boarding-school. 

"What!"  cried  Fortunata,  in  horror.  "A  Rivallo 
at  a  vulgar  French  pension — impossible!"  And  she 
strode  from  the  room,  dramatic  and  enraged.  The 
Princess  was  delighted  with  such  a  snobbish  spirit. 
It  did  not  cause  her,  however,  to  alter  her  determina- 
tion. 

Fortunata's  father,  Conte  Ugo  Rivallo,  had  been 
killed  out  hunting  while  riding  across  the  Campagna, 
breaking  in  his  horse.  He  was  a  typical  hero  of 
romance.  Of  an  illustrious  Piedmontese  family,  he 
was  sordidly  poor,  a  gambler,  and  most  unlucky. 
Of  merely  moderate  intelligence,  nevertheless  he 
possessed  one  talent — the  art  of  living  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  friends,  sharing  their  horses,  their  wines, 
their  wives.  He  was  of  that  t5^e  beloved  by  the 
female  novelist — charmingly  unscrupulous,  blond, 
elegant,  with  the  heroic  manner — a  mingling  of  the 
martial  and  the  languid. 

With  that  first  flux  of  Americans  who  came  to 
the  Continent  with  the  avowed  object  of  exchang- 
ing their  shekels  and  daughters  for  a  title,  had  been 
a  respectable  New-Yorker,  Mr.  J.  B.  Brandelsbury, 
and  with  his  daughter  he  had  taken  up  residence  at 
the  Hotel  Quirinale,  in  Rome.  Annie  was  fresh 
from  boarding-school — though  "fresh"  is  an  inad- 
equate adjective  as  applied  to  a  being  so  frail,  so 
anaemic,  yet  possessed  of  a  peevish  prettiness,  only 
precious  from  its  quality  of  insecurity. 

Rivallo,   with   the   appreciation   of  opportunity 

4 


FORTUNATA 

peculiar  to  men  who  live  by  their  wits,  had  seen  in 
Annie  Brandelsbury  an  all-satisfying  bride,  able  to 
endow  him  with  sums  sufficient  to  indulge  his  magi- 
cal spending  powers — ^for  bank-notes  were  known  to 
vanish  in  his  hands  with  Hermann  -  like  rapidity. 
He  followed  her  about  on  his  foreign,  long- toed 
shoes,  his  glances  eloquent  of  a  languorous  ardor ;  he 
waltzed  with  her  to  the  clanking  of  his  sabre,  offered 
her  flowers  symbolical  of  love — the  rose,  the  red 
geranium — and  brushed  across  her  wrist  his  blond 
mustache.  "I  love  him!  I  adore  him!  I  cannot 
live  without  him!"  Annie  told  her  father,  with  the 
neat  enunciation  of  a  mechanical  toy.  Though 
staggered  by  the  enormity  of  the  dot,  Mr.  Brandels- 
bury resigned,  with  a  less  intuitive  spirit  than  that 
which  had  accumulated  his  wealth,  his  daughter  and 
the  better  part  of  his  fortune  and  took  ship  for 
New  York. 

The  Conte  brought  his  wife  to  that  umbrageous 
palace  where  he  had  lived  with  his  sister  since  her 
marriage  to  the  Principe  Colibri.  Too  proud  to  sell 
his  hereditary  property  near  Milan,  Rivallo,  years 
before,  had  locked  his  gates,  never  to  return.  Deso- 
lation overspread  his  vineyards  and  his  house  fell — 
a  pitiable  ruin. 

The  Palazzo  Colibri  is  one  of  the  marvels  of  Rome. 
The  gateway  faces  the  Corso  Vittorio  Emanuele; 
the  court  is  cool  and  silent.  In  the  centre  thereof 
is  set  a  circle  of  melancholy  stone  lions,  through 
whose  jaws  streams  of  water  spout  into  a  shallow 
basin.  The  palace  stands  back  in  shadow.  Though 
of  an  ornate  and  wonderful  architecture,  it  is  fallen 
into  decay.     In  the  alcoves  of  the  reception-hall 

S 


FORTUNATA 

pose  statues  of  "Chastity,"  "Prudence,"  "Silence," 
"Modesty,"  who  have  all  lost  a  finger,  a  lip,  or  a 
nose.  Old  Nello,  the  head  servant,  was  wont  to 
potter  every  morning  about  these  venerable  women, 
pretending  to  spruce  them  up  with  a  feather-duster. 
The  staircase  is  still  a  marvel  of  intricate  stonework, 
though  disfigured  by  a  green-and-red  matting  laid 
to  protect  the  middle  of  the  stairs.  In  the  rear,  in 
a  wilderness  of  garden,  grow  laurel  and  myrtle,  the 
solemn  cypress  and  pungent  box.  From  the  fagade, 
the  ever-patient  saints,  the  Madonna,  and  constant 
cherubim  have  not  given  over  watching,  while  the 
warriors  sleep  with  their  spears;  monks,  too,  stand 
in  their  niches,  wasted  by  time,  wrapt  in  the  in- 
effable sadness  of  decay.  The  Palazzo  hears  only 
the  murmurings  of  its  fountain,  the  challenging  of 
bells  whose  towers  cut  the  sky  and  stands,  like  a 
senator  of  ancient  Rome  who,  having  far  outlived 
his  time,  endures  at  last  the  blow  which  must  prove 
fatal,  and  hides  his  face  in  his  toga,  resigned  to  the 
passing  of  his  grandeur  and  the  final  dissolution. 

Annie,  bom  to  the  genial  rattle  of  Fifth  Avenue, 
to  the  contemplation  of  plush  and  gaudy  mirrors, 
was  uncharmed  by  the  Palazzo's  sinister  beauty. 
She  trembled  as  the  doors,  swinging  apart,  revealed 
her  future  home,  the  desolate  expanse  of  hall,  the 
stairs  mounting  to  portentous  obscurity,  the  ban- 
ners dusty,  forgotten,  brooding  in  the  shadow,  with 
wings  furled  like  birds  of  prey  grown  old  on  the 
battle-field.  But  most  her  heart  quailed  at  the 
thought  that  this  roof  sheltered  her  only  by  per- 
mission of  her  sister-in-law,  before  whom  Annie  lost 
color  and  voice — a  feeble  chirp  at  best. 

6 


FORTUNATA 

The  Princess  Colibri  was  twenty  years  her  brother's 
senior;  erratic  in  the  extreme,  her  irregularities  of 
mind  displayed  themselves  in  her  dress.  Never  was 
seen  such  a  conglomeration  of  styles;  such  Eliza- 
bethan ruffs,  extravagant  turbans,  cockatoo  feath- 
ers, bugles,  lugubrious  hearse-plumes — opposed  to 
her  Excellency's  grotesque  face  with  its  spreading 
features  of  a  comedy  mask.  A  divided  opinion 
reigned  as  to  the  Princess.  By  some  she  was  thought 
to  possess  a  brilliant  mind,  though  impaired  by  the 
eccentricities  of  genius;  by  others  (and  to  these  she 
was  grateful,  as  upholding  the  reputation  for  which 
she  labored)  she  was  regarded  in  the  light  of  a 
malignant,  cantankerous  harridan.  No  word  they 
found  too  bitter — ^harpy,  viper,  virago — yet  her 
Excellency,  in  truth,  was  like  the  rest  of  women, 
with  possibly  a  tinge  more  of  vanity,  of  ambition, 
of  the  inflated  ego,  being  obsessed  with  a  longing  to 
figure  as  a  personality.  Too  intelligent  to  lay  claim 
to  beauty  or  charm,  indifferent  to  love,  she  concen- 
trated her  ability  on  the  art  of  making  others  ridicu- 
lous. She  pictured  herself  as  a  female  Swift,  whose 
sarcasm,  more  venomous  than  a  serpent's  tooth, 
confounded  her  opponents  and  brought  to  shame 
her  imagined  oppressors.  For  years  she  had  said, 
"Mine  is  a  very  vicious  tongue;  I  am  a  dangerous 
woman  to  have  as  an  enemy."  Now,  with  patience, 
all  Rome  repeated,  "  The  Colibri  has  a  very  vicious 
tongue:  she  is  a  dangerous  woman  to  have  as  an 
enemy."  It  was  not  alone  those  who  incurred  her 
displeasure,  and  they  were  many,  but  friends — if 
such  she  may  have  been  said  to  possess — ^above  all, 
toadies,  poor  relatives,  and  dependents,  who  bore  the 

7 


FORTUNATA 

brunt  of  her  Excellency's  caustic  humor.  The  mania 
for  wit  had  taken  such  a  hold  of  the  Princess  that 
she  could  no  longer  say  good-moming  or  hand  a  tea- 
cup without  making  a  pun  or  a  bon  mot. 

Her  Excellency,  when  a  young  girl,  had  married 
Prince  Colibri,  a  man  very  much  her  senior,  of  a 
dreary  disposition,  but  of  prominence  in  diplomatic 
circles.  In  three,  as  she  considered  unwasted,  years 
she  talked,  scolded,  nagged,  shocked,  and  terrified 
the  old  gentleman  into  his  grave.  Left  alone,  she 
became  even  more  of  a  virago,  made  enemies  left 
and  right,  composed  satirical  pamphlets  and  bitter 
poems,  which  she  shipped  off  to  people  who  hap- 
pened to  displease  her. 

Rome  is  fatalistic.  In  spite  of  the  Princess's  ec- 
centricities, she  still  had  a  large  following  to  tremble 
at  her  frown.  Her  behavior  imperilled  her  standing 
at  court,  and,  imder  the  plea  of  illness,  she  resigned 
her  position  as  lady-in-waiting  to  the  Queen — ^just 
in  time,  so  said  scandal,  to  keep  herself  from  be- 
ing dismissed.  In  spite,  or  perhaps  because  of  her 
tongue,  the  Princess  was  kowtowed  to  in  Rome. 
Every  Thursday  she  held  a  reception.  On  that  day 
the  palace  swarmed  with  the  aristocracy  of  both 
factions.  The  guests  thronged  in  and  out  of  the 
great  hall;  the  servants,  in  their  faded  liveries, 
served  meagre  refreshments,  or  stalked  lugubriously 
about  by  the  light  of  some  few  twinkling  candles, 
which  in  no  way  dispelled  the  obscurity  of  the 
draughty  stretch  of  rooms. 

Not  only  because  of  the  persecutions  of  her  sister- 
in-law,  who  could  not  forbear  to  tease  the  plaintive 
Annie,  was  the  Contessa  in  need  of  sympathy.    She 

8 


FORTUNATA 

found  herself  in  the  trying  relationship  of  step- 
mother to  a  ten-year-old  girl.  Rivallo,  when  only 
twenty,  had  married  a  young  Italian,  who,  dying, 
left  him  a  daughter.  True  type  of  the  child  bom  of 
a  love-match  as  romantic  as  ill-fated,  Antonia  Rivallo 
had  inherited  a  Southern  nature — ardent,  volcanic, 
knowing  no  bounds  in  affection  or  hatred.  Her 
friends  were  without  blemish ;  those  whom  she  chose 
to  call  her  enemies,  monsters.  Growing  up  in  soli- 
tude, cramming  her  mind  with  French  and  Italian 
novels,  untaught  in  self-control,  Antonia's  emotions 
were  so  violent  as  almost  to  imbalance  her  mind, 
her  moods  alternating  from  the  wildest  enthusiasm 
to  the  most  profound  melancholy.  At  the  news 
that  her  father,  whom  she  devotedly  loved,  had  got 
him  a  wife — a  stepmother's  influence,  Antonia's 
literature  had  taught  her,  was  devastating  to  the 
home — she  was  overswept  with  despair,  locked  her- 
self in  her  room,  and  for  two  days  refused  to  eat  or 
speak.  Burning  with  resentment,  she  finally  emerged 
and  took  her  place  at  table.  Apprehensive  Annie, 
struggling  with  the  vermicelli,  omnipresent  in  the 
Roman  menu,  felt  the  blazing  eyes  of  her  newly 
acquired  stepdaughter  and  gave  up  the  chase  of 
the  limp  viand.  She  asked  for  nothing  more  than 
to  live  without  contention.  To  Antonia  she  offered 
a  willing,  if  tepid,  affection,  but  the  sombre  girl  re- 
fused all  overtures  with  the  manner  of  a  tragedy 
queen.  The  timid  stepmother  was  unnerved,  and 
started  at  the  shadow  cast  in  passing  by  this  long, 
lugubrious  child. 


CHAPTER  II 

FOUR  years  had  passed  between  the  death  of 
her  father  and  the  moment  of  Fortunata's  de- 
parture for  boarding-school — four  years  potent  in 
the  framing  of  her  nature,  a  nature  independent, 
secretive,  and,  above  all,  egotistical,  for  self  and  for 
self  only.  She  had  been  her  father's  favorite,  and 
he  had  dragged  her  with  him  ever3rwhere — to  Paris, 
Venice,  Naples,  London — possessed  by  the  idea  that 
his  little  daughter  brought  him  luck.  His  less  un- 
usual children,  Eugenio  and  Francesca,  were  left 
to  their  mother's  easy  tears.  Fortunata  was  a  ca- 
pable soul,  never  had  she  been  a  baby  or  a  child,  but 
an  individual  from  the  moment  of  her  birth.  She 
scorned  weakness,  and  was  utterly  bored  by  her 
plaintive  and  tear-drowning  mother.  Her  father's 
pleasures  caused  him  to  absent  himself  for  days 
from  his  daughter,  leaving  her  to  the  inhospitable 
corridors  of  a  hotel  and  the  pastimes  of  her  own  in- 
vention. For  her  solitary  meals  into  the  restaurant 
she  walked  imdaimted;  ordered;  re-ordered;  sent 
scornfully  away;  showed  off;  made  the  waiters 
laugh.  Yet  by  reason  of  her  father's  uncertainty  in 
paying  his  bills,  she  was  not  as  popular  as  she  might 
otherwise  have  been. 

To  this  world  no  comet  had  announced  her  arrival, 
yet  she  was  bom  with  the  conviction  that  she  was 

lO 


FORTUNATA 

an  iinusual  and  talented  person.  She  never  showed 
her  conceit,  but  her  ambitions  gave  her  great  secret 
pleasure.  In  solitude  she  mapped  out  for  herself 
a  glorious  career.  First,  she  was  to  have  been  a 
dancer,  and  she  might  have  succeeded,  for  she  was 
agile,  graceful,  and  well-made;  next,  she  burned  to 
be  an  actress,  a  second  Rachel.  Then  fame  as  an 
author  appeared  possible,  and  she  wrote  a  mediaeval 
romance  in  six  copy-books.  Later,  in  fancy,  she 
became  a  dramatist.  Her  works  were  to  be  power- 
ful but  immoral — they  would  contain  the  gloom  of 
an  Ibsen  and  the  art  of  a  Maupassant.  Her  tragedy, 
as  yet  in  embryo,  "Ghosts  That  Return  Not,"  was 
played  in  imagination  at  the  Theatre  Frangais.  She 
attended  in  the  President's  box,  in  her  best  white 
dress.  At  the  end,  to  the  cries  of  * '  Author !  Author ! ' ' 
she  appeared  upon  the  stage  and  bowed  low  between 
Sarah  Bernhardt  and  Mounet-Sully. 

A  crash  in  Rivallo's  precarious  finances  about 
this  time  caused  him,  with  his  daughter  and  what 
baggage  escaped  his  creditors,  to  beat  a  retreat  to 
the  Palazzo  Colibri,  to  urge  the  protection  of  his 
pugnacious  sister.  With  not  enough  money  left  to 
make  a  genial  clinking,  he  was  still  as  debonair  as 
ever.  He  waxed  his  mustache  and  overtrod  his 
shoes,  and  threw  them  away  as  gayly  as  before,  and 
on  his  borrowed  hunters  aired  his  martial  spurs. 
Unfortunately,  one  of  these  borrowed  hunters  it  was 
which  caused  his  death,  and  thereby  prevented  him 
from  wasting  the  few  remaining  dollars  of  his  wife's 
dowry.  Fortunata  was  moved  but  little  by  her 
father's  death;  in  fact,  she  experienced  a  certain 
pleasurable  excitement.     She  felt  herself  of  added 

II 


FORTUNATA 

importance.  Antonia,  Eugenio,  and  Francesca  an- 
noyed her.  They  took  away  from  her  distinction. 
She  wanted  to  be  the  only  fatherless  child. 

But  all  that  was  long  ago,  and  she  was  now  leav- 
ing for  boarding-school.  As,  years  before,  she  had 
decreed  the  departure  of  Eugenio  for  England  to 
prepare  for  Oxford  and  the  advent  of  Miss  Billford, 
the  Princess  Colibri  had  decided  upon  a  French 
school  for  her  niece. 

"Annie,  if  you  remember,"  she  had  said  to  her 
sister-in-law,  "a  sufficient  sum  was  settled  by  your 
father  on  the  children  for  their  schooling.  When 
does  it  begin?  Come,  decide!  Santa  Madonna! 
Are  you  crying,  or  is  it  that  your  eyes  perpetually 
leak?" 

The  Princess  had  a  stilted,  high-flown  manner  of 
speech,  pompous,  wearisome  in  the  extreme,  and 
interlarded  with  smart  quotations,  coarse  speeches, 
and  internal  references  to  mythology. 

At  the  sound  of  her  Excellency's  voice,  Annie 
raised  her  hands  and  waved  them  with  the  helpless- 
ness of  a  drowning  person.  A  rapidly  increasing 
deafness — an  hereditary  disease — combined  with 
hypochondria,  and  her  imagined  ailments,  had  caused 
her  to  release  all  hold  on  life. 

"Oh,  it  is  so  easy  for  some  people  to  decide!"  she 
cried,  helplessly;  "but  I  am  not  used  to  it!  I  can't 
do  it!  My  kind  father  and  dear  husband  have  al- 
ways decided  for  me."  When  the  Contessa  referred 
to  anybody  as  "kind"  or  "dear,"  they  were  certain 
to  be  either  dead  or  overwhelmed  with  misfortune. 
"I  know  the  dear  children  need  to  be  taught — Fran- 
cesca, is  it  time  for  my  seven  drops?     Oh,  if  their 

12 


FORTUNATA 

dear  father  were  only  here  to  advise  me!"  The 
Contessa  had  lately  discovered  in  Rivallo  countless 
virtues,  until  now  unsuspected. 

"Very  well,"  announced  the  Princess,  "Fortunata 
shall  go  to  a  pension  which  I  have  discovered  near 
Paris."     And  thither  Fortunata  went. 

The  distinguished  Spanish  Countess  del  Santa 
Cruz,  having  lost  in  Spain  her  husband,  her  fort- 
une, and  the  best  part  of  her  reputation,  had, 
with  her  four  talented  daughters  and  one  talented 
son,  taken  refuge  in  France,  and  on  the  outskirts 
of  Paris  bought  a  dilapidated  country  house,  which 
she  had  christened  The  Terrestrial  Paradise  and 
opened  as  a  boarding-school  for  young  ladies.  It 
must  be  admitted  that,  in  enumerating  the  famous 
professors  from  Paris  whose  services  she  had  en- 
gaged, the  Countess  drew  upon  her  vivid  Southern 
imagination,  for  these  boasted  instructors,  alas! 
proved  to  be  her  own  offspring — Margherita,  Ferdi- 
nanda,  Pepita,  Carolla,  and  Alfonso.  True  it  is, 
however,  a  more  versatile  group  of  geniuses  never 
shone.  Had  a  fond  mamma  written,  "I  am  anxious 
that  my  daughter  should  learn  ventriloquism,"  the 
trusting  mother  would  have  received  this  reply: 
"The  famed  ventriloquist  Professor  Spinnetti  visits 
us  every  Wednesday.  Your  dear  daughter,"  etc. 
Spinnetti,  no  doubt,  would  not  have  appeared,  but 
his  place  would  have  been  adequately  taken  by 
Carolla  or  Alfonso,  or  any  one  of  the  glittering  con- 
stellation. 

But  if  the  Countess  del  Santa  Cruz  chose  to  cheat, 
it  was  in  an  elegant  manner — she  seldom  lost  her 
temper  or  raised  her  voice. 

13 


FORTUNATA 

"Behold  the  property  of  Madame  la  Comtesse!'* 
quoth  Baptiste,  driver  of  the  rickety  omnibus  bear- 
ing Fortunata  and  Miss  Billford,  as  they  rolled  into 
the  unkempt  groimds  of  The  Terrestrial  Paradise. 
At  that  moment  a  group  of  youthful  Amazons, 
in  jerseys,  darted  across  the  road,  pursuing  one 
another  at  tag. 

"The  young  ladies  are  at  play,"  observed  Bap- 
tiste, and  he  pointed  to  the  presbyi^re,  where  a  num- 
ber of  the  pupils  slept,  the  house  proper  being  over- 
crowded. At  a  turning  of  the  road  up  loomed  the 
house  itself,  square  and  boxlike.  They  gained  the 
steps;  out  rushed  the  Countess,  kissed  Fortunata 
on  both  cheeks,  declaring  that  she  was  charming, 
adorable.  One  was  surprised  to  hear  her  thin,  pip- 
ing voice  issue  through  so  heavy  and  grizzled  a 
mustache.  Now  was  the  turn  of  the  offspring  to 
salute  Fortunata  fondly  on  both  cheeks,  which  they 
accordingly  did — all,  of  course,  excepting  Alfonso. 
The  four  young  ladies  were  in  their  peignoirs,  and 
had  their  hair  streaming  down  their  backs.  The 
strenuous  life  they  led  did  not  allow  them  time  to 
dress.  When  visitors  came,  they  excused  their  at- 
tire, explaining  that  they  had  just  washed  their 
hair. 

Fortunata  spent  a  wretched  evening.  She  par- 
took, with  the  school,  of  a  miserable  supper,  served 
by  an  old  peasant  woman  in  shuffling  wooden  shoes. 
The  bare  dining-room  was  dimly  lit  by  a  few  oil 
lamps  that  merely  served  to  define  the  scholars' 
chewing  profiles.  ' '  Good-bye,  my  childhood !"  Fort- 
unata said  inwardly — "and  you,  my  day-dreams, 
good-bye!" 

M 


FORTUNATA 

"Our  school  days  are  our  happiest" — what  a  false 
platitude!  Childhood  has  been  oversung.  With 
many  natures  it  is  a  time  of  loneliness,  misunder- 
standing, and  nameless  disappointment.  Children 
lack  the  power  of  expression.  Often  a  sense  of 
righteous  indignation,  that  flames  in  the  heart  and 
scalds  the  eyelids,  finds  vent  only  in  ill-tempered 
screams.  Besides,  what  an  ugly  age!  Youth  that 
captivates  at  seventeen  is  not  charming  at  twelve. 
To-night  the  debutante's  mouth  is  comparable  to  a 
rose.  Four  years  ago  it  watered  greedily  at  the 
name  of  Suchard  or  Cailler.  To-night  she  talks 
prettily  of  the  books  mamma  won't  let  her  read — 
''Wasn't  Guy  de  Maupassant  a  Crusader?"  The 
little  hypocrite,  has  she  forgot  the  study  hours  spent 
in  reading  yellow-covered  novels  disguised  as  French 
grammar  ? 

What  dreary  days  those  were  for  Fortunata,  and 
how  she  loathed  her  studies!  She  cared  nothing  for 
Clovis  nor  Charlemagne,  and  an  expurgated  edition 
of  Gargantua,  read  aloud  while  she  darned  her  stock- 
ings, bored  her  to  death.  Her  one  enjoyment  was 
to  assume  the  role  of  a  female  Hamlet,  of  a  dry  and 
caustic  humor.  She  had  a  large  following;  she  was 
considered  a  rare  and  brilliant  spirit.  On  her  thumb 
she  wore  a  huge  signet  ring  of  her  father's.  She  let 
it  clang  against  her  desk,  declaring,  "It  was  given 
to  me  by  a  man  who  loved  me  to  distraction."  She 
entertained  her  coterie  with  hair-stirring  ghost 
stories.  The  few  rules  there  were  she  systematically 
broke.  All  through  meals  she  made  hideous  faces 
at  Alfonso.  He  had  been  greatly  smitten  with  her 
at  first,  but  under  her  continued  coldness  soon  trans- 

15 


FORTUNATA 

ferred  his  affections.  She  led  his  mamma,  the  poor 
Countess,  an  awful  life.  Once,  just  before  the  holi- 
days, Fortunata  was  discovered  trying  to  smuggle  a 
hat-box  into  the  school. 

"Mademoiselle,  what  is  that?" 

"My  simimer  hat.  Countess." 

"Let  me  see  it,  ma  ch^rie." 

Fortunata  needs  must  open  the  box.  It  was 
stuffed  to  the  lid  with  pralines,  and  square  on  the  top 
lay  Manon  Lescaut.  The  Countess  said  but  three 
words:  "Je  suis  brisee!" — a  vague  expression,  "I 
am  broken,  crushed,  smithered  to  bits." 

For  two  years  Fortunata  systematically  reduced 
the  Countess  to  fragments.  At  first  her  deviltries 
aroused  a  mild  amusement,  but  the  last  summer  of 
her  sojourn  she  overreached  herself.  It  came  about 
this  way. 

The  Santa  Cruz  family  had  twelve  birthdays  a 
year;  for  not  only  did  they  celebrate  the  days  on 
which  they  were  bom,  but  also  the  days  of  the  saints 
after  whom  they  were  named,  and  so  systematically 
had  this  remarkable  family  been  bom  and  named 
that  one  of  their  birthdays  fell  on  every  month  of 
the  year.  Forttinata  was  overheard  commenting 
on  this  coincidence  and  declaring  that  for  the  Count- 
ess the  phenomenon  was  not  unfortunate,  in  that 
the  scholars'  offerings — ^no  shops  being  near — took 
the  form  of  lucre;  large  sums,  too,  for  who  would 
dare  to  offer  a  few  beggarly  sous  to  the  friends  of 
the  Queen  Isabella?  This  one  sting  of  ridicule  did 
Fortunata  more  harm  than  all  her  months  of  con- 
stant rebellion.     From  that  day  she  fell  in  favor. 

During  the  last  week  she  had  taken  to  eating 

i6 


FORTUNATA 

walnuts  during  the  chapel  service,  and  had  been 
severely  criticised  for  so  unseemly  a  habit.  One 
never-to-be-forgotten  evening  some  friend  prompted 
her  to  take  a  pocketful  of  nuts  to  the  Countess's 
deportment  class — a  very  solemn  ritual  when  young 
ladies,  sixty  English  hoydens  who  spent  their  morn- 
ings in  languid  pursuit  of  learning  and  their  after- 
noons beating  one  another's  shin  black  and  blue  at 
hockey,  were  ranged  about  the  room  in  white  kid 
gloves.  At  the  moment  when  the  Countess  was 
instructing  Miss  Ruby  Parks,  daughter  of  a  Liver- 
pool coal  merchant,  in  the  art  of  chatting  with 
royalty,  one  of  the  offending  walnuts  went  crash 
under  Fortunata's  heel.  Though  intent  on  her  hob- 
nobbings  with  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe,  never- 
theless the  Countess  heard  the  report.  She  turned 
upon  Fortunata  and  gave  vent  to  a  squelching 
tirade,  spoken  in  the  withering  style  that  only  a 
well-bred  woman  can  affect.  For  once  Fortimata 
lost  her  presence  of  mind ;  for  once  her  famous  caus- 
tic humor  forsook  her;  she  made  but  a  surly  reply. 
As  soon  as  she  had  spoken,  she  was  chilled  with  a 
sense  of  defeat.  Her  following  had  not  giggled! 
Bitterness  unspeakable!  They  had  sided  with  the 
Countess.  The  next  two  or  three  days  Fortunata's 
vanity  fancied  a  change  in  her  followers.  They  no 
longer  gazed  upon  her  with  the  same  stare  of  inane 
worship.  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena  had  no  more  bit- 
ter sense  of  defeat.  She  retired  to  her  room,  and 
in  solitude  thought  out  an  adequate  revenge.  On 
the  morrow  the  Countess  meant  to  celebrate  one  of 
her  birthdays.  Why  should  not  Fortunata  present 
her  with  an  epigram,  written  in  the  Colibri's  best 
.2  17 


FORTUNATA 

manner  ?  Praise  be  to  Heaven  for  the  remembrance 
of  that  sour  style!  Fired  with  resentment,  she  then 
and  there  composed  a  doggerel  French  verse.  She 
had  sufficient  to  say,  for,  like  the  precocious  child 
that  she  was,  she  had  heard  all  the  old  Spanish 
scandals. 

When  dawned  the  eventful  morrow,  all  the  school 
was  gathered  in  the  dining-room,  and  in  sailed 
Madame  la  Comtesse,  to  receive  her  birthday  tribute. 
When  came  Fortunata's  turn — "Alas!"  she  said,  "I 
have  nothing  to  offer  but  a  slight  effusion  of  my 
muse,  dedicated  to  you.  Countess." 

"Read  it,  my  child,"  said  the  amiable  woman,  for 
though  disappointed,  she  was  invariably  gracious. 

Outwardly  as  bold  as  a  lion,  Fortunata  stood  forth, 
and  in  a  clarion  voice  she  trumpeted  these  lines: 

"Les  chateaux  en  Espagne,  Comtesse, 
S'6vanouissent  I'orsqu'on  vieillit; 
On  perd  la  sublime  jeunesse; 
On  perd  le  printemps  de  la  vie; 
On  perd  I'amour  et  la  tendresse; 
On  perd  I'amant,  on  perd  I'ami; 
On  perd  enfin  tout  ce  qu'on  peut; 
Et  les  dents  et  les  cheveux; 
Mais  les  chauves  dinent,  Dieu  merci; 
On  ne  perdra  jamais  I'app^tit." 

Or,  to  paraphrase  freely: 

"Our  Spanish  castles  fade,  Madame, 
As  we  grow  old,  as  we  grow  old; 
Gone  is  the  joy  of  youth,  Madame, 

And  life's  gay  spring,  all  green  and  gold. 
Aye,  even  love,  also,  Madame! 

Must  have  an  end,  must  have  an  end; 
i8 


FORTUNATA 

Our  gallants  go  their  way,  Madame, 

And  we  are  left  without  a  friend. 
'Tis  all  a  losing  game,  Madame, 

Full  many  a  charm  we  ill  can  spare 
Time's  envious  maw  doth  glut,  Madame, 

Including  both  our  teeth  and  hair. 
But,  natheless,  be  consoled,  Madame, 

The  cloud  has  still  its  lining  bright; 
The  bald  may  dine!     Thank  God,  Madame, 

We  do  not  lose  otir  appetite!" 

There  was  an  ominous,  an  awful  silence;  then 
burst  the  storm.  Terrible  was  the  wrath  of  Madame 
la  Comtesse,  and  terrible  the  words  she  chose  to  em- 
ploy. Although  it  was  to  the  old  spider's  loss  to 
release  any  of  the  flies  she  had  entangled  in  her 
web,  she  then  and  there  dismissed  Fortunata  for- 
ever from  her  sight.  But  what  did  Fortunata  care? 
Once  more  she  basked  in  the  gaze  of  sixty  pairs  of 
wonder-struck  eyes.     She  had  regained  her  aureole! 

After  her  dismissal,  Fortunata  wrote  to  her  aunt 
to  send  Miss  Billford  or  a  servant  to  bring  her  home. 
In  spite  of  her  escapade,  she  was  not  afraid  to  face 
the  Princess.  She  had  always  been  the  favorite, 
and  any  proof  of  independence  delighted  the  eccen- 
tric old  woman.  It  never  occurred  to  Fortunata  to 
conciliate  her  mother.  The  Princess  Colibri  was  the 
only  authority  the  Rivallo  children  knew. 

Until  her  escort  came  Fortunata  was  reduced  to 
staying  in  her  room,  where  she  still  had  the  means 
of  making  herself  disagreeable,  for  the  partitions 
were  so  thin  that  her  voice  could  be  distinctly  heard 
by  any  one  passing  in  the  corridors.  Therefore,  from 
morning  to  night  she  sang  her  epigram ;  she  droned 
it  like  a  Gregorian  chant.    The  third  day  old  Nello 

19 


FORTUNATA 

came  to  release  her  and  to  take  her  home.  At  the 
Palazzo  door  they  were  solemnly  greeted  by  the 
portiere,  a  species  of  majordomo,  a  striking  feature 
of  the  palace,  who  received  all  the  visitors'  cards 
and  adorned  the  court-yard  with  his  ornate  pres- 
ence. A  gorgeous  object  was  the  Princess  Coli- 
bri's  portiere,  clad  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow. 
He  had  legs  that  would  be  the  envy  of  an  English 
flunky,  a  cocked  hat  upon  his  brow,  ambrosial 
whiskers  upon  his  cheeks,  and  a  commanding  staff 
within  his  hand. 

"Where  is  the  Princess?"  asked  Fortunata. 

"Her  Excellency  is  in  the  garden,  Contessina," 
he  replied,  addressing  her  by  the  title  —  "little 
Countess"  —  used  to  distinguish  her  from  her 
mother,  the  Contessa. 

Sure  enough,  in  the  garden  back  of  the  Palazzo, 
sunning  herself  on  a  stone  bench  amid  the  sound  of 
church-bells  and  the  penetrating  odor  of  box,  Fort- 
unata found  her  Excellency  sitting  in  state.  She 
was  more  gorgeous  than  an  Eastern  idol.  Upon  her 
head  a  radiant  bird  of  paradise;  behind  her,  Miss 
Billford,  with  an  amber-tinted  parasol,  protecting 
the  glorious  fowl  from  the  rays  of  the  sun.  At  her 
feet,  crouching  in  the  guise  of  worshippers,  her  two 
little  pet  dogs,  Mimi  and  Ganymede,  even  fatter 
and  sleeker  than  in  the  last  holidays. 

"Good-morning,  Spindleshanks,"  was  her  Excel- 
lency's greeting. 

"Good-morning,  Princess,"  Fortunata  answered, 
in  a  hollow  voice,  for  she  saw  the  necessity  of  play- 
ing her  cards  with  care. 

"Good -morning,  Miss  Billford.    Good -morning, 

20 


FORTUNATA 

lovely  Mimi  and  adorable  Ganymede.  Princess,  I 
shall  ask  you  to  excuse  Miss  Billford.  What  I  have 
to  say  is  for  your  private  ear." 

"Billford,"  said  the  Princess,  "leave  us.  Take 
my  book,  my  gloves,  my  parasol.  Take  .also  my 
little  dogs.  They  have  sat  too  long  in  the  sun.  It 
is  vain  for  you  to  whistle.  You  only  emit  an  asth- 
matic wheeze.  No  dog,  however  intelligent,  could 
understand.  You  will  have  to  carry  Mimi  and 
Ganymede.  When  not  annoyed,  they  are  gentle — 
I  doubt  if  they  bite  you." 

As  soon  as  Miss  Billford  had  taken  her  departure, 
timidly  bearing  off  under  each  arm  a  fat  and  pomp- 
ous little  animal,  Forttinata's  aunt  turned  to  her, 
and  said  in  an  abstracted  voice,  "Serpent  that  I 
have  warmed  in  my  bosom,  what  have  you  done?" 

"Princess,"  Fortunata  answered,  "what  should  I 
not  have  done,  without  the  example  that  I  have 
had  as  a  child  constantly  before  my  eyes  of  the 
powers  of  sarcasm?"  Here  Fortunata  bowed  to 
her  Excellency.  Then  with  an  art  worthy  of  a 
courtier  she  told  her  story.  Her  diplomacy  was 
effective.  She  had  said  but  little  when  the  Princess 
interrupted : 

"When  next  I  am  in  Paris  I  shall  go  down  to  this 
lady's  pied  k  terre,  and  before  I  leave  her  she  shall 
be  ventre  a  terre."  And  when  Fortunata  mentioned 
the  English  hoydens — 

"Pouf !"  said  her  Excellency.  "When  they  read 
aloud  they  tremble  at  sight  of  an  iinexpected  H. 
They  are  the  daughters  of  middle-class  merchants, 
petty  shopkeepers;  they  are  unfit  companions  for 
you." 

21 


FORTUNATA 

When  Fortunata  had  finished  her  discourse  and 
spoken  her  epigram,  never  was  mentor  more  de- 
lighted. Her  Excellency  crowed  for  joy.  She 
clapped  her  hands,  she  smiled  like  an  ogress.  She 
declared  that  Fortunata  had  created  a  chef  d'ceuvre, 
that  she  herself  could  have  written  nothing  better, 
that  Fortunata  was  a  joy,  a  jewel,  a  poppet;  that 
not  only  was  she  clever,  brilliant,  but  that,  really, 
she  was  getting  good-looking.  Her  Excellency  gave 
Fortimata  carte  blanche  to  spend  her  days  as  she  chose 
— an  esprit  such  as  hers  needed  no  schooling.  Then, 
in  a  final  ecstasy,  the  Colibri  stretched  up  a  bare 
wiry  arm,  tied  at  the  wrist  with  a  bow,  and  raising 
two  fingers  in  the  apostolic  blessing,  she  balled  down 
from  the  radiant  vault  a  benediction  on  Fortunata's 
talented  young  head. 

Fortunata's  speech  had  been  tactful,  and  she  had 
expected  a  measure  of  success,  but  she  was  astounded 
by  the  ovation  she  received. 


CHAPTER  III 

BEFORE  Fortunata's  departure  for  school  her 
half-sister  Antonia  had  made  her  debut.  This 
girl's  wild  and  melancholy  beauty,  then  the  style  in 
Rome,  where  the  type  admired  alters  like  the  fash- 
ions, caused  her  success.  Though  dark  almost  to 
swarthiness,  her  face  had  that  effulgent  power  of 
expression  seen  only  in  the  women  of  the  South ;  her 
eyes  were  walls  of  light;  her  smile  tender  and  brill- 
iant; across  her  face  there  shifted  a  play  of  sim  and 
shadow  that  gave  her,  if  a  trifle  crazed,  at  least  a 
caressing  expression.  At  her  first  ball  she  danced 
twice  with  the  Marchese  Dacampagna.  In  the 
Griseries  de  la  Valse,  of  which  she  had  read  so 
much,  she  smelled  the  pomade  of  his  mustache  and 
fell  ardently  in  love.  In  a  month  she  was  married 
to  Dacampagna.  The  Marchese,  a  Florentine,  was 
not  of  the  oldest  nobility,  but  he  possessed  large 
means — a  rare  phenomenon  in  Italy.  He  had  so- 
cial aspirations.  Rome  seemed  to  him  full  of  pos- 
sibilities. He  decided  to  live  there.  The  doors  of 
the  Palazzo  Colibri  opened  to  Antonia  again,  this 
time  with  her  husband,  for  which  hospitality  the 
Colibri  named  and  received  her  price.  Her  Excel- 
lency had,  among  other  more  assumed  failings,  a 
frugal  nature. 

The  first  years  of  this  marriage  put  the  passion 

23 


FORTUNATA 

of  Romeo  and  Juliet  to  shame.  Alas!  these  halcyon 
days  were  not  to  last.  Antonia  discovered  that  her 
Romeo,  the  god  of  her  idolatry,  was  an  ordinary 
mortal,  possessed  of  those  gross  faults  that  revolt  a 
woman  essentially  sentimental  and  idealistic.  Bit- 
ter quarrels  broke  out  between  the  ex-turtle  doves. 
Their  bickerings  were  promoted  by  the  amiable  Prin-- 
cess.  Antonia  fell  into  a  fathomless  despair,  and 
turned  from  her  love  to  the  consolations  of  Mother 
Church.  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  saw  her  every  day. 
Like  all  the  afflicted  of  Heaven,  she  took  a  dreary 
satisfaction  in  her  woes;  she  was  apt  to  say,  "Whom 
the  Lord  loveth,  He  chasteneth."  The  tender  Juliet 
was  gone,  and  in  her  place  was  daily  to  be  contem- 
plated a  saintly,  edifying,  but  lugubrious  martyr. 
In  spite  of  Antonia's  Medusa-like  airs  and  Lady 
Macbeth  attitudes,  evoked  by  a  piece  of  underdone 
mutton  or  by  the  smell  of  cooking  or  by  any  of  the 
trivialities  of  life;  in  spite  of  her  absurdities,  exag- 
gerations, and  lack  of  himior,  there  was  something 
pathetic  and  lovable  in  this  woman's  nature,  some- 
thing infinitely  touching  in  her  need  and  craving  for 
affection. 

Following  Fortunata's  return  from  school,  there 
began  for  her  two  years  of  dolce  far  niente,  of  waste- 
ful, sunlit,  imimproving  days,  hours  passed  in  soli- 
tude with  only  her  thoughts  for  companions — her 
thoughts,  that  no  one  could  share,  nor  take  away! 
Here  were  no  companions  playing  at  leap-frog. 
Here  was  no  row  of  whitewashed  cells  for  piano 
practice,  no  dreary  little  boxes  through  whose  parti- 
tions each  player  was  heard  thumping  her  individual 
piece — ^all  thundering  together  in  one  conglomera- 

24 


FORTUNATA 

tion  of  hideous  sound.  Here  the  only  notes  to 
disturb  her  reveries  were  from  Francesca,  screwed 
to  a  music-stool. 

When  Eugenio  came  home  from  England  for  the 
holidays,  Fortunata  was  disappointed.  She  had 
hoped  to  find  a  congenial  spirit,  but  Eton  had  sadly 
narrowed  him.  He  talked  of  nothing  but  his  boys' 
clubs  and  his  debating  societies.  By  reason  of  his 
lack  of  entertaining  conversation,  Fortunata  found 
her  brother's  company  boring  in  the  extreme,  and 
chose  in  preference  the  joys  of  solitude. 

The  Countess  del  Santa  Cruz  had  sometimes  sent 
a  few  of  her  lambs,  shepherded  by  one  of  her  daugh- 
ters, to  witness  heavy  tragedies  by  Comeille  and 
Racine,  wherein  dreary  people  in  togas  stalked  and 
gesticulated,  holding  in  their  hands  scrolls  of  manu- 
script and  bundles  of  papyrus.  Incredibly  dull  as 
were  these  plays,  nevertheless  Fortunata  remem- 
bered how  her  heart  would  beat  when  from  the  stage 
resounded  those  three  primitive  knocks,  peculiar  to 
the  Theatre  Frangais,  as  the  signal  for  the  curtain 
to  rise.  But  now,  with  the  advent  of  Madame  Sarah 
Bernhardt  in  Rome,  were  forgotten  the  lugubrious 
Andromaches,  Iphigenias,  and  Medeas,  in  contem- 
plating the  agonies  of  the  divine  actress.  The 
Colibri  allowed  her  niece  to  attend  the  theatre  when- 
ever so  inclined,  on  condition  that  Miss  Billford  ac- 
companied her  and  that  Fortunata  paid  for  the 
tickets.  The  Princess  and  Antonia  shared  a  box 
at  both  the  Argentina  and  the  Costanzi  theatres. 
Fortunata's  mother  was  never  with  them;  busy 
counting  out  pills  and  draining  medicine  bottles,  she 
had  forgotten  that  one  could  be  happy.    Fortunata, 

25 


FORTUNATA 

not  being  as  yet  introduced  to  society,  must  needs 
sit  in  an  orchestra  chair,  surrounded  by  the  hoi 
polloi.  Miss  Billford  blushed  whenever  she  under- 
stood—at **Sapho,"  "La  Cittk  Morta,"  and  "Cleo- 
patra." Between  the  acts  Fortunata  craned  her 
neck  to  see  her  relatives,  resplendent  in  their  box. 

At  "La  Tosca,"  given  on  Tuesday,  the  fashionable 
night,  the  Princess  appeared  in  a  glory  of  green 
ostrich-plumes,  her  neck  and  arms  bejewelled  with 
the  famous  Colibri  emeralds.  She  shone  and  glit- 
tered more  than  any  jeweller's  window;  she  was  sur- 
roimded  by  an  escort  of  old  bucks,  bravely  grinning 
in  the  face  of  death,  doddering  age,  and  rheumatism. 
The  Princess  was  holding  forth  on  Bemhardt's  fail- 
ing powers,  and,  amid  an  appreciative  tee-heeing, 
her  Excellency  nodded  her  feathery  aureole,  waved 
her  sparkling  arms  and  gave  an  imitation  of  the 
actress's  voice  and  gestures. 

Antonia  had  thrown  a  gauzy  veil  over  the  splendor 
of  her  shoulders.  She  too  held  her  court,  amid 
which,  alas,  Dacampagna  was  not  visible.  She  took 
her  homage  haughtily  and  sadly,  like  the  Empress 
Semiramis,  rewarding  her  admirers  with  a  vague 
smile  or  an  intense  murmur.  In  spite  of  her  so- 
journs at  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  and  her  ardent 
prayers,  she  had  not  foimd  the  "peace  that  passeth 
understanding."  For  what,  kind  Heaven,  were  all 
these  prayers,  offerings,  and  pious  distractions,  but 
to  win  back  a  most  unworthy  heart,  not  worth  the 
possessing,  to  regain  the  love,  such  as  it  was,  of 
Guido,  that  fickle  Romeo  whose  unstable  fancy  had 
wandered  elsewhere  ?  That  Antonia  still  loved  him 
was  due,  Guido  fancied,  to  his  charms  and  his  mus- 

26 


FORTUNATA 

tachios,  Alas,  for  his  vanity — he  and  his  like  are 
worshipped  merely  because  some  women  possess  the 
talent  of  knowing  how  to  love.  The  privilege  of  hav- 
ing a  heart  to  give  away  is  costly,  and  this  is  why 
Antonia  appeared  more  tragic  than  Bernhardt  her- 
self enacting  the  woes  of  La  Tosca. 

From  her  brother-in-law,  Guido  Dacampagna, 
Fortunata  wheedled  a  riding-horse,  a  mare,  black  as 
night  and  with  nostrils  as  red  as  though  they  had 
been  rouged.  Fortunata  named  the  beast  Zuleika, 
after  a  favorite  heroine. 

Early  every  morning  she  would  order  Zuleika 
saddled  and  ride  out  with  Nello  as  her  escort.  In 
the  freshness  of  the  day  the  bells  were  ringing  to 
church,  through  the  streets  the  devout  Carmelites 
and  barefooted  Capuchins  were  strolling  to  mass. 
Zuleika  in  her  flight  caused  seminaries  of  yoimg 
priests  to  scatter  right  and  left.  These  petticoated 
boys,  like  to  gaunt,  raw-boned  peasant  women, 
grinned  under  their  shovel  hats  to  see  Zuleika  caper 
by.  Through  the  Corso  and  the  by-streets,  out  onto 
the  hard  Appian  Way,  past  squalid  Borghi,  where 
groups  of  brown  imps  cheered  in  derision,  past 
aqueducts  and  catacombs,  out  into  the  vast  sun- 
burnt Campagna.  Zuleika  rolled  her  black  eyes, 
gripped  the  bit  between  her  teeth,  and  darted  like 
an  arrow  across  the  stretch  of  country.  Fortunata 
would  look  back  and  laugh  to  see  Nello  and  his 
asthmatic  pony  left  wild-eyed  on  the  horizon.  In 
the  sunlit  gallops  she  met  parties  of  hunters  with 
brilliant  scarlet  coats — all  the  nobility  out  hunting 
the  fox.  But,  like  a  well-trained  maiden,  she  passed 
imseeing — with  lowered  eyelids. 

87 


FORTUNATA 

In  those  days  Fortunata  was  a  solitary,  dreamy 
child.  In  a  few  weeks,  as  a  result  of  a  visit  to  the 
French  capital,  she  became  a  yoimg  lady  with  Louis 
XV.  heels,  who  loved  the  Parisian  vanities,  the  pink 
pomades,  the  coquettish  clusters  of  false  curls. 

She  visited  Hallee,  Paquin,  Doucet;  she  coveted 
the  crazy  hats  of  Mesdames  Reboux,  Roger,  and 
the  inspired  Alphonsine.  She  loved  the  daintiest 
dinners,  the  sweetest,  the  most  penetrating  per- 
fumes. Fortimata  found  that  she  was  bom  to  be 
comfortable,  to  appreciate  luxury,  to  have  all  the 
pretty  things  of  earth.  In  the  face  of  her  coming 
campaign — for  the  following  winter  she  was  to  make 
her  d6but — the  Princess  declared  that  her  favorite 
niece  lacked  that  artificial  chic,  the  stamp  of  the 
world,  and  hoped  that  Paris  might  prove  a  stimulus. 
There  she  knew  one  was  apt  to  give  the  body  more 
than  a  thought.  On  the  way  to  the  French  capital, 
her  Excellency  held  forth  on  the  necessity  of  im- 
comfortable  shoes,  high  heels,  tight  corsets,  diet — 
in  short,  il  faut  souffrir  pourMre  belle. 

"It  is  all  very  well  to  be  clean,  but,  Santa  Maria, 
one  needs  a  little  style." 

To  all  of  which  Fortunata  inclined  her  blond  and 
pensive  head.  In  the  Hotel  Grosvenor,  Rue  Auber — 
Italians  when  travelling  choose  small  and  rather 
cheap  hotels — the  Princess  and  Fortunata  took  up 
their  residence.  From  morning  to  night  they  vis- 
ited the  fountainheads  of  fashion,  and  feverishly  im- 
bibed the  new  modes.  The  Colibri  was  intimate 
with  all  the  artists  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Many 
were  the  afternoons  passed  by  the  Princess  and 
Fortunata  in  the  sanctum  of  Mademoiselle  Suzanne, 

28 


FORTUNATA 

the  arbiter  of  fashion,  the  dictator  at  whose  word 
the  vogue  of  sleeves  with  puffs  passes  and  that  of 
the  leg-o'-mutton  shape  is  ushered  in.  When  Mad- 
emoiselle Suzanne  ceased  to  wrestle  with  the  inspira- 
tion of  her  genius  in  the  creation  of  Fortunata's 
coming-out  dress,  she  made  herself  agreeable  relat- 
ing naughty  stories  of  the  demi-mondaines  and 
cocottes  of  the  season.  The  Colibri,  whom  no  one 
could  accuse  of  having  a  refined  mind,  was  moved 
by  these  tales  to  guffaws  of  horse-laughter. 

Nothing  speaks  worse  for  Paris  than  the  genuine 
admiration,  respect,  and  enthusiasm  it  tenders  to 
its  cocottes  and  painted  tragedies  in  general.  The 
saleswomen,  Mesdemoiselles  Eulalie,  Marie,  Louise, 
kowtow  more  obsequiously  to  a  gaudy  Jezebel  than 
to  the  most  virtuous,  wealthy,  brilliant  woman  of 
society.  Schools  for  a  cynic  are  these  palaces  of 
fashion.  A  great  many  women  will  own  to  not 
being  as  beautiful  as  Venus;  only  one  in  a  trillion 
would  care  to  be  thought  as  wise  as  Minerva;  very 
few  assume  a  r61e  as  chaste  as  that  of  Diana;  but 
who  does  not  think  in  her  heart  that  she  has  a 
"style"  all  her  own!  Fortunata  herself,  when  skip- 
ping into  new  creations,  before  enthusiastic  French 
saleswomen,  blushed  with  pleasure,  though  conscious 
of  not  looking  her  best,  at  ecstatic  exclamations — 
"The  waist  of  a  sylph!"  "The  leg  of  a  coryphee!" 
Many  was  the  useless  horror  she  was  wheedled  into 
buying  merely  because  la  belle  Otero  had  its  mate,  or 
because  the  notorious  la  Valliere  had  ordered  its 
counterpart. 

The  Colibri  talked  with  her  niece  frankly  of  life 
and  what  might  be  made  of  it.     At  the  Ritz,  every 

29 


FORTUNATA 

afternoon,  she  snickered  at  the  world  over  her  tea 
and  6clairs. 

"That,  Fortimata,"  said  the  Princess,  pointing, 
''is  a  German.  See  how  she  stares  at  my  wig  and 
mutters  abscheulich!  Poor  savage,  what  does  she 
know  of  dress?  Her  language  proves  it.  That  is 
an  American.  I  know  her  by  the  courage  with 
which  she  wears  that  hat.  Look  at  the  French- 
women about  us.  Their  charm  is  full  of  contra- 
diction. Yonder  one,  with  the  plover-colored  circles 
about  her  eyes,  might  have  just  flung  a  faithless 
lover  back  his  letters,  when,  in  truth,  she  is  only 
laced  too  tightly.  Over  there  is  a  cocotte — la  Valli^re, 
by -the -way.  There  she  sits  in  her  sables  like  a 
fashion-plate  out  of  Le  Chic  Parisien.  But  meet  her 
glance  and  see — she  has  the  eyes  of  a  primitive  race." 

Fortunata  smiled  courteously.  How  my  gar- 
rulous old  aunt,  she  thought,  does  spout  on! 

"But,  Fortunata,"  continued  the  mentor,  "the 
cocotte  has  one  serious  fault — she  lacks  foresight. 
Until  come  the  horrors  of  age,  she  smirks  and  skips, 
like  those  shallow  daughters  of  Sodom  and  Go- 
morrah who  were  conjured  in  vain  to  cease  clashing 
their  cymbals  and  piping  on  their  sackbuts  and 
dulcimers,  but  who  in  spite  of  all  remonstrance  rev- 
elled in  the  Tyrian  purple,  delighted  in  the  grape 
and  kissed  the  black-bearded  warriors  of  the  East." 

The  old  worldling  ceased,  held  up  part  of  an 
^lair,  and  pensively  let  it  slip  into  her  mouth. 

The  Princess's  remarks  were  not  restricted  to  the 
female  frequenters  of  the  Ritz.  She  had  kindly  de- 
termined to  single  out  for  Fortunata  a  desirable  hus- 
band.    Opportunities  of  marriage  were,   therefore, 

3° 


FORTUNATA 

her  constant  theme.  Every  man  that  passed  her 
table  was  either  the  CoHbri's  friend,  acquaintance,  or 
more  often  her  enemy.  If  he  were  none  of  these, 
at  least  she  knew  his  name,  his  history,  the  amount 
of  his  income,  his  debts,  his  mistress,  and  the  speed 
of  his  hunters.  A  thousand  times,  in  imagination, 
did  her  Excellency  marry  Fortunata  to  all  the 
Serene  Highnesses  of  the  land. 

"That  is  the  Prince  Raoul  de  la  Tour  Bichelle!" 
cried  the  Princess,  one  day,  pointing  to  a  tripping 
old  beau  in  a  buff  waistcoat.  "He  is  as  old  as 
Methuselah,  rich  as  Croesus,  and  wicked  as  Silenus. 
If  he  comes  to  Rome,  I  am  determined  you  shall 
marry  him.  And  why  should  you  not  ?  More  won- 
derful things  have  happened.  Did  not  Esther  be- 
come the  queen  of  Ahasuerus  ?" 

Thrice  blessed  was  Fortunata  in  her  instructress . 

She  did  not  depend  upon  her  aunt  alone  to  make 
of  her  an  accomplished  woman.  She  determined  by 
mere  force  of  will  to  grow  pretty.  She  had  narrow 
eyes  to  combat  and  irregular  features.  Her  face, 
though  vivid,  had  not  one  curve  of  the  divine 
beauty  which  she  so  worshipped.  She  began  with 
her  hair.  Her  aching  arms,  held  above  her  head 
by  the  hour,  learned  to  wave,  to  curl,  to  undu- 
late. She  took  to  cold  cream  and  almond  washes, 
and  the  rouge-pot  was  with  her  always.  She  paced 
the  apartment,  balancing  on  her  head  the  waste- 
paper  basket,  thus  hoping  to  attain  a  smooth  and 
sinuous  gait  like  that  of  the  Eastern  women.  To 
gain  a  waist,  she  banted,  very  nearly  starved,  and 
had  she  not  possessed  the  sweetest  of  tempers 
would  have  grown  unbearably  peevish. 

31 


FORTUNATA 

The  Princess  turned  toward  Italy,  and  started 
with  her  niece  for  Rome.  Fortunata  was  altered 
beyond  recognition,  though  her  transformation  was 
no  more  remarkable  than  those  revolutions  of  char- 
acter which  we  constantly  witness.  The  engines 
hooted  a  warning,  the  fields  ran  past,  the  telegraph- 
posts  leaped  by,  and,  breathless,  gasping,  hysterical, 
the  train  sobbed  into  the  station  at  Rome.  Fort- 
unata, balancing  on  her  stilts  of  heels,  directed  the 
placing  of  her  trunks  and  much-becounted  hat- 
boxes,  then  sedately  entered  the  omnibus  which 
had  been  sent  to  meet  them.  She  speculated  on  the 
bobbing  of  one  of  her  Excellency's  curls  all  the  way 
to  the  Palazzo.  The  majordomo  threw  wide  the 
doors  and  displayed  his  beautiful  legs.  In  the  hall 
Fortimata's  mother  was  expostulating  with  Fran- 
cesca,  who  was  seeking  to  fasten  the  Contessa's 
placket.  It  was  part  of  this  unhappy  lady's  mis- 
fortune never  to  be  completely  dressed.  She  lacked 
either  a  belt  or  a  collar  or  a  shoe- button,  and  hers 
was  a  constant  wail  for  pins. 

Her  first  words  were,  "Princess,  isn't  it  dreadful, 
Antonia  has  left?" 

"Has  left?"  cried  her  Excellency,  who  scented  a 
scandal .     "With  whom  ? ' ' 

"With  Mariana,  the  cook.  They  have  gone  with 
flowers  to  one  of  the  churches.  The  cook  has  been 
very  sick,  and  now  she  is  better,  and  they  have 
been  offering  up  things — that's  why  I'm  so  unpre- 
pared.    I  didn't  know  you  were  coming." 

Fortunata  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  with  the 
suggestion  of  a  kiss  for  her  mother  betook  herself 
to  her  room,  still  mind  and  soul  with  the  hat-boxes. 

32 


FORTUNATA 

That  night  Fortunata,  in  her  high-ceiled,  chilly 
room,  with  its  pungent  odor  of  plaster  and  matting, 
stood  candle  in  hand  before  the  mirror  and  looked 
into  the  face  of  her  reflection.  At  the  first  glance 
nothing  remarkable — a  pale  girl  with  a  pointed  chin 
— yet  out  of  the  dusk  of  the  greenish  old  mirror 
laughed  two  attractive,  coffee-colored  eyes — amused, 
audacious,  like  the  eyes  of  a  fawn.  They  gleamed 
and  danced,  as  must  have  shone  the  glance  of  the 
waterwitch  Undine  when  she  was  but  a  gay  spirit 
of  the  floods,  before  she  loved  and  gained  a  soul. 
Yet  even  as  Fortunata  looked,  her  eyes  darkened 
and  grew  sad — almost  to  desperation — and  the  soul 
that  had  been  lacking  rose  into  their  pupils,  looked 
out  and  thought.  Was  the  iris  brown  or  gray,  black 
or  green?  She  could  no  more  determine  its  color 
than  could  the  lovers  in  the  fairy  tale  tell  the  hue 
of  the  eyes  of  the  princess.  Charming,  visionary 
face! 

"Serve  me  well!"  prayed  Fortunata. 

Then  she  called  Hortense,  her  maid — she  had  pro- 
cured her  in  Paris — undressed,  blew  out  her  candle 
and  skipped  into  bed. 

3 


CHAPTER  IV 

HIS  Eminence  the  Cardinal  Santinello,  spiritual 
consoler  to  the  Queen  Mother,  a  pillar  of  the 
Church,  and  Antonia's  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend,  took  lunch  at  the  Palazzo  Colibri  on  the 
following  morning,  the  first  of  December.  It  was 
a  day  so  mild  and  of  such  blue  skies  that  on  leaving 
the  dining-room  for  coffee  in  the  sala  di  ricevimento, 
the  wood  fire  that  blazed  in  the  chimney  was  scarcely 
needed.  The  Princess  bade  Nello  fling  open  the 
long  French  windows.  The  Cardinal  sat  before  the 
flames  and  toasted  his  square-toed  shoes  and  neat 
scarlet  stockings.  His  intelligent  glance  was  raised 
toward  the  ceiling,  and  rested  on  "Hope"  astride  of 
a  cloud,  while  through  his  handsome  nostrils  filtered 
the  smoke  of  a  cigarette.  Patiently  he  smiled  on 
his  disciple  Antonia,  who  held  forth  on  the  mysteries 
of  table-tipping,  her  last  craze.  With  the  sun  on  his 
back,  and  the  fire  at  his  feet,  the  Cardinal  was 
content. 

"Eminenza,"  Antonia  cried,  "I  cannot  believe 
that  death  cuts  us  off  forever  from  those  we  have 
loved.  Even  on  earth  we  can  speak  to  them,  I 
am  sure." 

"Who  knows?"  yawned  Santinello,  showing  his 
white  teeth. 

"Eminenza,"   the    Colibri    interposed,   laughing, 

34 


FORTUNATA 

"  Antonia  has  been  everything  from  a  Kneipist  to  a 
suffragette.  I  have  seen  her  wear  Reform-kleiden 
and  go  about  in  a  bag.  Now  she  watches  all 
the  comers,  looking  for  the  dead — her  eyes,  like  a 
cat's,  following  up  and  down  the  movements  of 
some  invisible  thing.  It  is  unnerving."  And  the 
Princess  threw  back  her  wicked,  snout  -  shaped 
face. 

"Such  enthusiasms  are  natural  to  a  woman  of 
the  Marchesa's  fire  and  temperament,"  the  Cardinal 
contented  himself  by  saying. 

As  for  Antonia,  she  made  no  response,  but  re- 
turned from  the  spirit-world  long  enough  to  cast 
her  aunt  a  tolerant  glance,  then  continued  with  her 
table-tippings  in  a  voice  as  deep  as  Schumann- 
Heink's,  and  even  more  tragic. 

Then  it  was  that  Nello,  coming  in  to  take  the 
coffee-cups,  whispered  to  the  Princess. 

"Guido,"  her  Excellency  cried,  "Luigi  has  come 
from  Florence  and  is  here!  See  Guido's  long  face, 
Eminenza.  This  Luigi  is  the  black  sheep,  a  younger 
brother,  a  rouge  et  noir  devotee.  He  has  come  to 
borrow  money,  if  you  call  borrowing  extorting  that 
which  you  are  determined  never  to  repay." 

At  the  news  Guido,  who  till  then  had  been  staring 
stupidly  at  the  fire,  started  to  his  feet  and  began 
pacing  the  floor,  muttering. 

"My  brother  is  here,  then?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  Eccellenza."  The  Marchese  exacted  this 
title  from  the  servants,  although,  not  being  in  the 
diplomacy,  he  had  no  right  to  it. 

"What  did  my  brother  say?"  questioned  Da- 
campagna. 

35 


FORTUNATA 

"Don  Luigi  told  me  to  inform  your  Excellency 
of  his  arrival." 

"Accidente!    Then  why  didn't  you  do  so?" 

Men  of  Guido's  disposition  show  their  authority 
by  pretending  to  misunderstand  their  servants,  and 
by  having  with  them  long,  violent  explanations. 

Tired  with  Guido's  blustering  talk,  "Show  in 
Don  Luigi!"  commanded  the  Princess.  Then,  turn- 
ing to  Fortunata,  "A  most  magnetic  man.  Is  he 
not,  Antonia?  When  you  were  at  school,  Fortu- 
nata, Luigi  stayed  here.  He  has  his  faults,  no 
doubt,  appears  a  little  like  the  hero  of  a  cheap 
French  novel,  uses  perhaps  too  much  pomade  and 
bear  grease.  You  might  know  by  the  look  of  him 
that  he  was  disinherited.  As  a  younger  son,  he 
received  almost  nothing,  and  that  nothing  he  soon 
gambled,  squandered,  flung  away.  Persistent  ill 
luck  at  Monte  Carlo  left  him  as  poor  as  a  church 
rat.  His  father,  a  pompous  old  merchant,  would 
have  turned  in  the  grave  at  seeing  the  bright  lire 
fly.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  Guido,  you  know 
your  father  was  a  merchant,  and  bought  his  title  in 
Humberto's  reign.  Madre  de  Dios!"  cried  the  Prin- 
cess, pointing,  "see,  the  Marchesa  is  making  herself 
lovely!"  For  Antonia  had  broken  off  in  her  spirit- 
ual talk,  drawn  from  a  vase  a  long-stemmed  rose, 
and  was  pinning  it  to  the  folds  of  her  dress.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door,  and  twin  roses  bloomed 
on  either  cheek. 

"Don  Luigi  Dacampagna!"  announced  Nello,  and 
in  swaggered  a  young  man,  with  his  chin  in  the  air, 
in  a  haughty  yet  debonair  fashion.  Of  course,  he 
was  pale — how  could  a  younger  son,  the  squanderer 

36 


FORTUNATA 

of  a  fortune  and  a  gambler,  be  otherwise?  So  pale 
was  he  that  across  his  face  the  ends  of  his  waxed 
mustache  made  two  dark  lines  like  thin,  black 
scars.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  he  stopped  abrupt- 
ly, clapped  his  heels  together,  and  inclined  his  chin 
over  a  spruce,  high  collar. 

The  two  brothers  shook  hands,  and  affectingly 
kissed  each  other  on  both  cheeks.  The  salute  was 
performed  with  silent  though  dramatic  warmth  on 
the  part  of  the  new-comer,  with  very  ill  grace  on 
that  of  his  host.  Don  Luigi  then  continued  his 
dandified  progress.  To  the  Princess  he  made  a 
bow,  and  brushed  his  mustache  over  the  one 
finger  she  resigned  him.  He  kissed  the  Cardinal's 
ring,  then  to  Antonia  he  turned  with  his  all-con- 
quering airs  and  took  her  outstretched  hand. 

"Marchesa,"  said  he,  "you  had  not  thought  to 
see  me  so  soon  again.  Was  I  wrong  in  coming 
and  not  warning  you?"  His  voice  had  a  dramatic 
quality,  and  at  these  seemingly  harmless  words 
Antonia  cast  down  her  eyes, 

"My  husband's  brother  is  always  welcome,"  she 
said. 

"Antonia  is  even  lovelier,  Luigi  mio?"  the  Prin- 
cess asked.  "She  has  hair  enough  to  play  Lady 
Godiva;   she  is  all  eyes  and  curves — a  Juno." 

"No,  Princess,"  answered  Don  Luigi,  "better  a 
Madonna.  The  Marchesa  has  a  more  tender  and 
divine  expression." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Fortunata,  Luigi?"  asked 
the  Princess,  in  her  bold,  disconcerting  voice. 

Don  Luigi  wheeled  to  make  his  bow.  It  is  not 
etiquette  to  kiss  the  hand  of  a  young  girl.     "Ah, 

37 


FORTUNATA 

Contessina!"  And  he  admired  Fortunata  over  his 
spiky  mustache. 

"Isn't  it  strange,  Don  Luigi,"  she  said,  "that  you 
and  I  have  never  met  before?"  And  she  gave  him 
her  hand,  gravely,  but  as  though  she  Hked  him. 

"I  was  never  fortunate,"  said  Don  Luigi,  still 
looking  at  Fortimata.  But  who  can  be  called  im- 
fortunate  who  has  the  gift  of  pjeasing?  For  his 
eyes,  every  woman  liked  Don  Luigi.  His  was  not 
the  Frenchman's  stare,  but  a  glance  all  tenderness, 
all  ardor,  which  he  never  failed  to  bestow  even  on 
a  hag.  Don  Luigi,  with  large  gestures,  gave  the 
story  of  his  ill  luck — for  roulette,  it  seems,  he  had 
discovered  a  system,  faultless,  infallible,  mathemat- 
ical, a  system  to  make  a  man  a  multi-millionaire, 
had  he  but  sufficient  capital  for  the  start.  With 
Southern  eloquence,  he  evoked  the  scene  of  Monte 
Carlo — the  great,  hot  rooms,  the  intent  figures 
crowding  round  the  gaming-table,  the  feathers  on 
the  women's  hats  seeming  to  tremble  with  suspense, 
the  eager  hands  outstretched  to  make  the  bet. 
"Rien  ne  va  plus!"  A  hush,  only  the  whirl  of  the 
ball,  a  sharp,  dry  sound,  then  silence.  With  a  rush 
comes  the  storm  of  voices,  excited  or  triumphant, 
while  here  and  there  a  forlorn  figure  turns  and  slinks 
despondent  away.  As  Don  Luigi  ceased,  he  looked 
at  his  hearers  in  turn  —  at  Fortunata,  at  Antonia; 
the  latter  said  nothing,  still  kept  her  eyes  downcast, 
but  she  seemed  to  listen — an  unusual  thing  in  this 
visionary. 

"Bravo!"  cried  the  Princess,  as  with  outflung 
arms  the  dramatic  speaker  ceased.  Don  Luigi  was 
a  favorite  with  her  Excellency.    She  called  him 

38 


FORTUNATA 

Lothario  and  Don  Juan.  "See  the  brothers,  Emi- 
nenza.  Luigi  is  all  youth  and  spirit  and  fire;  then 
look  at  Guido.  Santa  Madonna !  one  might  as 
well  compare  a  Mercury  with  a  drunken  Cen- 
taur." 

This  proved  too  much  for  Guido,  who  turned  on 
his  heel  and  went  growling  from  the  room. 

Antonia  lifted  to  her  aunt  her  dark,  reproachful 
eyes. 

"Ah,  the  dear  Signorina  Billford!"  cried  Luigi, 
and  he  pointed  to  a  recess  where,  against  the  faded 
tapestry,  Francesca,  Eugenio,  and  the  governess 
were  deep  in  a  game  of  checkers.  Eugenio,  with  his 
hands  in  his  waistcoat  pockets,  was  supervising  the 
play  of  the  two  women.  He  was  grown  a  slender, 
dressy  young  man,  with  a  healthy  aversion  for  any- 
thing like  work.  He  lolled  through  two  or  three 
hours  of  the  morning  in  the  company  of  an  English 
tutor,  supposed  to  be  coaching  him  for  Oxford. 
The  Conte  had  outgrown  the  enthusiasms  of  his 
Eton  days.  He  was  now  of  a  melancholy  turn  of 
mind,  thought  of  taking  up  literature  as  a  career, 
and  spent  much  time  in  a  flowered  dressing-gown, 
reading  French  novels  to  improve  his  style. 

At  this  time  of  year  night  comes  with  a  bound. 
The  Princess  bade  Nello  pull  to  the  windows  and 
unfold  the  shutters,  carved  with  masques  and  gar- 
goyles. The  only  light  was  that  of  the  fire,  in  whose 
glow  the  room  found  something  of  its  lost  splendor. 
Guido  appeared  in  the  doorway,  candle  in  hand  to 
light  his  Eminence  down  the  stairs. 

"Luigi,"  said  Dacampagna,  casting  his  brother 
an  ugly  look,  "where  are  you  staying?" 

39 


FORTUNATA 

"While  Luigi  is  in  Rome,"  interposed  the  Princess, 
"he  is  staying  under  my  roof." 

"As  you  please,  Eccellenza,"  said  Guido,  turning 
purple. 

The  Cardinal  arose  and  held  up  two  fingers  in 
the  apostolic  blessing.  The  others  crowded  about 
him  to  kiss  his  ring. 

First,  the  Princess  Colibri  bowed  her  stiff  old 
knees;  then  Antonia,  seizing  Santinello's  hand, 
kissed  the  amethyst  as  though  she  owed  it  her  life; 
next,  Luigi  hastened  to  press  his  lips  on  the  stone, 
yet  he  looked  rather  at  Antonia  than  at  his  Emi- 
nence. Even  Miss  Billford  touched  the  jewel  with 
her  strictly  Episcopalian  nose — she  did  so  with 
shrinking,  as  though  inhaling  from  a  bottle  of 
powerful  smelling-salts. 

Santinello  stepped  into  the  darkness  of  the  hall. 
Guido  and  the  candle  followed,  while  Luigi,  having 
bowed  with  the  grace  of  a  dancing-master,  swung 
out,  hand  on  hip. 

Fortunata  leaned  over  the  banister  and  looked 
into  the  well  of  blackness.  The  three  men  went 
down  the  stairs:  first  stepped  Santinello,  flip-flop 
in  his  long  robes;  next  followed  Guido  with  candle 
held  on  high,  and  lastly  came  Luigi's  lithe  figure. 
As  the  little  flame  wound  down  into  blackness,  her 
sister  joined  her.  Antonia's  gaze — the  gaze  of  the 
visionary — strayed  down  into  the  gloom. 

"Fortunata,"  she  asked,  "did  you  ever  feel  as 
though  somehow  to-morrow  would  be  different,  hap- 
pier, more  complete  than  was  to-day?  Did  you 
ever  say  to  yourself,  'To-morrow  I  shall  be  satis- 
fied'?" 

40 


.   FORTUNATA 

"Yes,"  Fortunata  answered,  "it  is  a  kind  of  men- 
tal toothache." 

Antonia's  queer,  humid  eyes  met  her  sister's. 

"Vero,  vero!"  she  murmured,  and  the  women 
turned  back  into  the  sala. 

"Billford,"  the  CoHbri  was  saying,  "are  your 
knees  made  Hke  other  people's — can  you  bend  them  ? 
Eugenio,  Francesca,  pile  up  some  cushions  in  that 
chair;  they  shall  be  his  Eminence.  We'll  teach 
Miss  Billford  to  bow  the  knee  less  stiffly." 

"Listen,"  said  Antonia,  holding  up  her  hand,  "that 
is  Don  Luigi's  voice.  Buona  notte,  Eminenza!"  she 
added,  in  a  whisper,  as  though  awed.  "Those  are 
my  two  friends.  It  is  better  to  have  a  friend  than 
all  the  love  on  earth," 

"What's  your  opinion  on  that,  Billford?"  asked 
the  Princess,  never  tired  of  jeering  the  old  governess. 
The  harassed  Billford,  weary  of  the  enforced  cere- 
monies, brightened. 

"Miss  Bumey  in  Evelina,'*  said  she,  "gives  a  most 
beautiful  definition — " 

"Va  bene,  Nello!"  interrupted  the  Princess,  and 
turning  her  back  on  Billford,  she  steamed  through 
the  door,  past  the  old  servant,  who,  with  gray  head 
obsequiously  bent,  stood,  candle  in  hand,  waiting 
to  light  her  Excellency  through  the  rat-haunted 
hall. 


CHAPTER  V 

NEXT  morning  Fortunata,  submerged  in  the 
Lethe  of  sleep,  struggled  up  to  the  light  through 
fathomless  waters.  As  she  lay  still  in  the  cool,  dark, 
high-ceiled  room,  she  was  aware  of  a  sense  of  well- 
being.  It's  good  to  be  young  and  pretty  and  have 
the  world  before  you,  and  the  hope  of  being  famous. 
For  famous  Fortunata  knew  she  ultimately  would 
be — she  had  always  known  it.  When  only  ten,  she 
would  practise  her  signature  against  the  days  when 
enthusiasts  should  send  her  their  albums. 

On  such  a  morning  who  could  lie  abed  ?  Fortunata 
threw  on  her  wrapper  and  sprang  for  the  nearest 
window.  What  freshness!  The  morning  smelled 
like  a  rose.  During  the  night  it  must  have  rained, 
for  everything  glistened  and  the  garden  looked  as 
though  its  face  had  just  been  washed.  Somewhere 
a  hidden  singer  carolled  "La  Bell'  Amica."  The 
man's  rounded  notes  soared  up  into  the  air,  and  the 
commonplace  song  gained  a  certain  sincerity  when 
flung  out  in  challenge  at  full  voice: 

'"Light  in  the  morning  and  joy  in  youth, 

But  how  shotold  I  laugh  when  my  heart  is  afire? 
She  gave  me  a  glance,  a  side-glance,  • 
And  I  bum,  I  perish  like  a  flame — 
Whose  cruel  eyes  have  the  power  to  haunt  me? 
To  haunt,  to  trouble,   nay,  to  distract  me? — 
You  know  but  too  well,  la  bell'  Amica!'" 
42 


FORTUNATA 

Fortunata  raised  her  arms  and  took  to  teasing  her 
hair  into  curls.  Suddenly  she  paused.  In  the  hall 
"Coco,  Coco!"  murmured  an  insidious  voice.  It 
is  Luigi,  thought  Fortunata;  he  must  see  my 
wrapper!  and  she  pounced  into  the  corridor.  Don 
Luigi,  on  one  knee,  like  a  troubadour,  was  coaxing 
a  battered,  disreputable  parrot  of  seafaring  appear- 
ance and  bandy-legged  as  well.  Coco's  whole  atti- 
tude expressed  his  perception  of  humor.  He  fixed 
at  intervals  the  would-be  charmer  with  a  critical, 
uncanny  eye,  then  glanced  down  his  own  beak,  in 
coquettish  derision. 

"Ah,  Don  Luigi!"  exclaimed  Fortunata,  affecting 
surprise. 

"Ah,  Contessina!"  cried  Don  Luigi,  starting  up. 
"Such  a  morning  as  this  accursed  bird  has  caused 
me  to  pass!  I  have  pursued  him  through  every 
corridor,  and  still,  you  see,  impossible  to  approach 
him."  Here  he  bowed  to  Fortunata  so  low  that 
she  could  see  the  parting  that  ran  through  his  well- 
pomaded  hair,  from  his  forehead  to  the  nape  of  his 
neck. 

Fortunata  looked  at  him  through  her  eyelashes. 

"It  was  you  this  morning  that  sang  *La  Bell' 
Arnica'?" 

"Yes."     He  was  gratified.     "Did  you  like  it?" 

"Yes."  And  with  an  abrupt  change  of  manner, 
"Watch  me  drive  Coco."  She  pursued  the  reluc- 
tant bird.  With  outspread  wings  and  resentful 
squawk,  Coco  scurried  down  the  hall.  In  his  agita- 
tion, he  squalled  a  ribald  ballad  in  imitation  of  a 
drunken  sailor,  who,  after  praising  the  vino  rosso, 
calls  on  his  bella  to  sit  once  more  upon  his  knee. 

43 


FORTUNATA 

At  a  turning  of  the  hall  they  came  face  to  face 
with  the  Colibri.  The  Princess  wore  an  ermine 
dressing-gown  and  a  skull-cap  drawn  low  over  her 
brow.  It  was  later  in  the  day  that  her  Excellency 
bloomed  into  feathers  and  curls.  "Coco  mio!"  she 
was  whining,  and  her  eyes  were  as  round  and  wicked 
as  the  parrot's.  Indignantly  the  bird  waddled  past 
the  Princess  to  his  perch. 

"Buon  giomo,  Luigi,"  said  the  Colibri.  Then, 
contemplating  Fortunata,  "You  have  very  little 
on."  As  though  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  the 
Princess  tiptoed  across  the  hall,  her  wrapper  trail- 
ing with  a  furtive  sound.  She  made  for  one  of  the 
doors,  pushed  it  open,  and  behold!  there  sat  An- 
tonia  before  her  glass  brushing  out  her  cloud  of  hair. 
The  Princess,  still  holding  the  door  wide  open,  pro- 
tested, apologized:  "Have  you  just  waked?  Scusi, 
Antonia."  Then  she  drew  to  the  door,  beckoned 
Fortunata,  and  went  tiptoeing  back  through  the 
halls  with  an  agility  that  was  somehow  horrible  in 
such  an  old  and  heavy  woman. 

Only  in  the  most  romantic  books  does  the  en- 
trance of  the  heroine  cause  a  hush  to  fall  upon  the 
ball-room.  At  her  dSbut,  a  few  days  later,  though 
looking  her  best,  Fortunata  achieved  no  such  elec- 
trical effect. 

That  night  the  English  Ambassadress,  Lady  Bol- 
ton, gave  a  dinner  to  introduce  the  Honorable  Misses 
Bolton,  two  hard-washed  young  ladies  in  starchy 
muslin.  Into  the  dressing-room  Fortunata  entered, 
head  high  in  air.  Here  were  six  debutantes  palpi- 
tating on  the  threshold,  six  brown  necks  and  twelve 

44 


FORTUNATA 

collar-bones  surrounded  by  muslin  ruffs.  A  battered- 
looking  lady,  bruised  about  the  eyes,  her  teeth 
studded  with  gold,  her  hair  calling  for  regilding, 
stood  before  the  mirror  powdering  her  nose.  She 
had  a  repaired,  mended  look.  Out  of  the  comers 
of  her  eyes  Fortunata  studied  the  rival  debutantes 
and  recognized  her  fellow  dancing-school  pupils  of 
a  year  ago — only  a  year  ago — was  it  possible? 

I  needn't  be  afraid  of  these  girls,  she  thought. 

At  last  she  of  the  looking-glass  removed  her  bulk, 
gave  her  gloves  a  nautical  twitch  suggestive  of  a 
hornpipe,  yanked  up  her  train  and  trundled  away. 
On  passing  the  debutantes  she  nodded  good-tempered- 
ly,  in  the  manner  of  an  intrepid  swimmer  who,  strik- 
ing out  for  the  sea,  flings  back  encouragement  to 
the  shiverers  in  the  surf.  The  debutantes  surged  up 
to  Fortunata. 

"How  my  heart  beats!"  said  the  ringleader — ^no 
other  than  Fortunata's  long-time  friend,  Loulou  del 
Coco,  the  same  Loulou,  plump  and  busy,  always 
slightly  breathless  from  the  round  of  futile  duties. 

Fortunata  led  the  procession,  and  the  vestals  filed 
through  the  doorway.  Lady  Bolton's  fat,  damp 
hand  enveloped  the  Contessina's.  The  English 
Ambassadress  was  burdened  with  sorrows,  years, 
and  fat. 

"Henry,  this  is  the  Signorina  Rivallo." 

Lord  Bolton  bowed  to  Fortunata.  He  resembled 
Father  Time. 

No  one  else  was  presented.  The  roof  served  as 
an  introduction,  after  the  English  fashion.  Fortu- 
nata set  herself  to  learning  the  names  of  the  guests. 
She  drifted  about  among  the  different  groups,  and 

45 


FORTUNATA 

talked  glibly.  There  were  the  Conte  and  Contessa 
Torrigiano,  the  Conte  and  Contessa  Chiostra,  two 
newly  married  couples,  apparently  inseparable,  all 
four.  There  were  Englishmen  from  the  Embassy, 
and  foreign  attaches.  There  was  some  one  with 
genius  and  long  hair  whom  no  one  seemed  to  know. 
Mr.  Hackburth  was  there,  the  keen-faced  American 
Ambassador,  with  his  wife,  a  woman  who,  plain  and 
suppressed  all  her  youth,  had  now  burst  out,  to  the 
amazement  of  all,  in  a  sort  of  Indian  summer. 

Time  dragged  on  and  dinner  was  not  announced. 
Whispers  came  from  near  the  door.  People  turned, 
and  into  the  room  strode  a  strapping  young  woman. 

"The  American!"  said  some  one.  "Miss  Case!" 
murmured  somebody  else. 

"Une  originale!"  said  the  French  attache  to  Fortu- 
nata,  putting  up  her  eye-glass. 

"I  am  late?"  asked  the  new-comer,  in  a  staccato 
voice. 

"Very,"  answered  Lady  Bolton. 

"Too  bad!  The  bell-boy  who  generally  hooks  me 
up  was  out."  A  bomb  could  hardly  have  caused 
more  sensation. 

"What  courage,  what  power  of  success  these  wom- 
en have!"  the  Frenchman  went  on,  offering  his  arm 
to  Fortunata.     '  *  Even  Lady  Bolton,  so  fastidious — " 

"Oh,  Miss  Case  is  an  American,"  Fortunata  an- 
swered, vaguely.  After  the  Italian  point  of  view 
the  word  "American"  explained  all  eccentricities 
and  impossible  actions. 

"She  has  no  dot,  I  understand?" 

"Oh,  all  Americans  are  rich!"  Fortunata  averred, 
naively,  and  they  sat  down  to  dinner, 

46 


FORTUNATA 

In  the  centre  of  the  table  lay  a  mound  of  flowers, 
suggesting  somehow  a  new-planted  grave.  Fortu- 
nata  was  struck  by  the  abstraction,  the  laziness  of 
the  guests.  She  thought  it  strange  that  people 
should  dress  so  gorgeously,  wear  jewels,  eat  off  fine 
plate,  and  make  no  effort  to  live  up  to  luxuries,  nor 
by  a  little  animation  earn  their  good  food.  But  all 
at  once  every  one  began  to  talk,  and  all  together. 
Nobody  listened,  each  shrieked  louder  than  the 
other.  The  dinner  finished  in  a  clatter  of  noise, 
the  ladies  passed  into  the  reception-room;  the 
debutantes,  replete  and  exhilarated,  retired  to  a  cor- 
ner to  discuss  how  low,  when  once  married,  they 
could  wear  their  gowns.  Miss  Case,  indeed,  might 
have  been  a  bigamist,  if  lack  of  clothes  meant  mar- 
riage; yet  somehow  Fortunata's  modest  dress  was 
more  alluring  than  the  other's  bareness.  She  and 
Fortunata  stood  together,  each  scenting  an  enemy 
and  a  rival. 

"Do  you  like  my  Salome  gown  ?" 

"It  suits  you,"  answered  Fortunata,  courteously. 

"You're  not  an  Italian,  are  you?  You're  too 
attractive." 

"I  am  a  mongrel." 

Miss  Case  began  to  laugh,  shaking  a  wreath  of 
false  curls  as  yellow  as  marigolds. 

"Aren't  they  funny?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the 
debutantes.  Then  suddenly,  in  a  burst  of  confidence : 
"To  break  into  Italian  society  is  like  taking  candy 
from  children.  I  didn't  expect  to  find  it  such  a 
cinch." 

Singular  person,  thought  Fortunata,  to  whom  such 
language  was  obscure. 

47 


FORTUNATA 

The  men  now  came  in.  The  long-haired  genius 
was  asked  to  recite.  He  said  he  couldn't.  He  had 
a  cold — he  didn't  dare!  Everybody  cried:  "Oh, 
please  do!  Somebody  make  him!"  Finally  he  told 
about  Count  Ugo  in  the  Tower  eating  the  dead 
children,  and  everybody  talked  him  down. 

Fortunata  sat  by  the  fire,  with  most  of  the  men, 
though  she  was  unconscious  of  having  done  any- 
thing to  attract  them.  Later,  one  of  the  English- 
men moved  his  scalp  for  the  pleasure  of  the  com- 
pany, twitched  his  ears,  cracked  his  knuckles.  He 
was  looked  at  with  interest,  and  the  party  broke 
up. 

Fortunata  drove  home  sure  of  success,  impressed 
not  so  much  with  her  own  cleverness  as  with  the 
idiocy  of  the  world  in  general.  She  had  hardly 
reached  her  room  when  trailing  steps  and  the  whistle 
of  asthmatic  breathing  warned  her  of  the  approach 
of  the  Princess.  Fortunata  opened  the  door.  The 
Colibri  held  a  cashmere  shawl  up  to  her  jowls,  that 
hung  down  as  pale  and  polished  as  ivory. 

"This  is  a  pleasure,"  said  Fortunata,  and  she 
placed  some  cushions  in  her  arm-chair.  The  Prin- 
cess let  herself  down  into  a  sitting  posture,  cracking 
in  every  joint  and  breathing  with  the  noise  of  a 
dredge.  Half  undressed,  her  hair  on  her  shoulders, 
the  young  girl  described  the  evening,  imitating, 
gesticulating,  with  the  eagerness  of  a  child. 

"And  the  funniest  was  an  American,  my  age,  a 
crazy  creature,  and  so  pushing." 

"One  must  be  obtrusive  to  obtrude.'* 

"I  wish  you  could  have  heard  them  talk — rot, 
Zia,  rot!    Most  people  are  such  fools!" 

48 


FORTUNATA 

"They  are;  never  forget  it.  Nothing  is  more 
numbing  than  respect  for  others.  It  makes  dif- 
fidence. Take  every  human  being  as  your  tool, 
your  prey,  if  need  be;  if  you  don't  use  them,  they'll 
use  you.  Determine  to  be  some  one.  Make  up 
your  mind  to  be  heard  of.  Ah,  Fortunata,"  said  the 
Princess,  drawing  herself  up  to  her  feet  and  flinch- 
ing with  rheumatism,  "famous  or  infamous,  what's 
the  odds,  so  long  as  you  leave  your  mark?"  She 
turned  in  the  doorway  with  lowered  head,  her  chin 
sagging  on  her  breast.  "Go  ahead  and  make  your 
life — this  is  the  advice  of  one  who  loves  you.  Good- 
night." 

4 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  next  night,  at  twelve,  the  Princess's  ba- 
rouche drew  up  before  the  Palazzo  in  a  driz- 
zling rain.  Her  Excellency  would  have  starved 
rather  than  give  up  her  fine  carriage,  sleek  horses, 
her  overfed  coachman  and  groom. 

"It  is  raining,"  said  Fortunata's  mother,  peering 
sadly  into  the  mist.  "I  have  said  since  five  to-day 
that  it  would  rain.     I  have  felt  it  by  my  bronchitis." 

"When  one  has  so  many  presentiments,  some  of 
them  must  come  true,"  sneered  the  Princess,  sweep- 
ing by,  and  she  took  her  place  in  the  barouche, 
followed  by  Antonia,  Fortunata,  Guido,  and  Luigi, 
who  crammed  themselves  in  as  best  they  might. 

Luigi,  seated  opposite  Antonia,  fixed  on  her  his 
fervent  eyes,  while  all  the  time  imperceived  he  held 
one  of  Fortunata's  hands  as  in  a  vise. 

The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  French  Embassy. 
Monsieur  de  Quimpere  was  giving  a  cotillon  in  his 
daughter's  honor.  Five  rows  of  gilt  chairs  edged 
the  ball-room.  The  back  seats  overflowed  with 
mothers,  dowagers,  chaperones,  and  benchwomen, 
who  kept  rearing  up  to  see  the  dancing,  calling  on 
their  daughters  and  climbing  over  the  other  tiers 
to  find  their  offspring,  too  long  absent  from  the 
maternal  side.  Between  the  dances  the  breathless 
debutantes  were  brought  back  and  dumped  beside 

50 


FORTUNATA 

their  respective  chaperones.  The  young  men  passed, 
all  animation,  all  gayety,  all  desire  to  please  and 
to  be  pleased.  They  were  smartly  dressed,  well 
groomed,  very  correct,  ultra  English — Anglomania 
had  lately  seized  Italy.  It  is  a  pity,  for  the  Ital- 
ians are  an  idealistic  race,  the  Byronic  becomes 
them,  the  neglig^  shirts  and  turn-down  collars. 

Many  of  the  women  were  beautiful,  many  elegant, 
almost  all  dark.  Like  Antonia,  they  seemed  ab- 
stracted, had  momentary  flashes  of  tenderness  or 
childish  annoyance  at  being  stepped  on  or  not  being 
asked  to  waltz.  Unlike  the  Northern  women,  they 
made  no  effort  to  disguise  their  feelings.  If  not  in- 
vited to  dance,  they  drooped  frankly  in  a  corner. 
Fortimata  had  found  that  she  had  entertained 
wrong  ideas  of  the  world,  or  at  least  of  the  Italian 
world.  There  was  not  the  toadying  to  money  and 
position  that  she  had  expected  to  find.  On  the 
contrary,  the  Romans  are  independent;  they  take 
people  for  what  they  are,  paying  respect  to  age,  to 
beauty.  The  Italians  were  once  a  great  people; 
they  do  not  always  forget  it.  Of  course,  if  an 
American  heiress  comes  to  be  married  off,  she  will 
be  treated  with  consideration — that  is  another  ques- 
tion— a  question  of  business. 

The  Colibri  sat  in  the  front  row,  her  feet  on  the 
rounds  of  her  chair  to  avoid  the  tread  of  the  dancers. 
Had  the  waltzers  been  earning  their  daily  bread, 
one  must  have  pitied  them.  Between  dances  the 
Contessina  Rivallo  came  decorously  back  to  her 
aunt's  side,  yet  her  partners  lingered.  Fortunata 
was  beginning  already  to  taste  the  sweetness,  the 
intoxication  of  success.    She  had  come  into  her 

51 


FORTUNATA 

kingdom,  the  kingdom  of  the  wom9,n  bom  to  please. 
A  sense  of  power  ran  in  her  veins  like  fire.  Other 
debutantes,  less  gifted,  sat  with  their  mammas,  quite 
forgotten.  Their  poor  little  heads  marcelled  and 
decked  out  to  charm  made  one's  heart  ache. 

"Eccellenza,  where  is  Antonia?"  asked  Guido, 
fighting  his  way  up  and  looking  damp. 

"Don't  you  see,  hanging  on  to  Luigi  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room?  She's  had  him  by  the  throat  all 
evening.  Some  one  has  just  knocked  her  comb 
out,  and  she  is  smiling  reassurance  through  a  rain 
of  hair-pins." 

In  the  arms  of  a  tall  officer.  Miss  Case  was  whirled 
past,  uttering  shrieks  of  delight  as  she  bumped  and 
disabled  the  other  dancers. 

"She  has  a  handsome  figure!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Hackburth  to  the  Princess. 

"Pshaw!"  the  Princess  answered;  "she's  laced 
to  the  shape  of  a  bass  viol." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hackburth!"  cried  Miss  Case,  rushing 
up,  "please  make  me  acquainted  with  the  dear 
Princess  Colibri." 

Mr.  Hackburth  murmured  an  introduction.  Miss 
Case  had  suffered  a  change  since  yesterday,  and 
for  the  worse.  Her  frank  breeziness  was  gone. 
Determined  to  be  foreign,  to  be  emotional,  she 
grimaced  and  gabbled  a  ridiculous  jargon.  "I  am 
ravished  with  meeting  you!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh, 
dear  me — ch^re  amie — figure  to  yourself — oh,  what 
is  the  English  word!" 

"Say  it  in  French,"  the  Princess  answered;  "I 
understand  French." 

Disgruntled,  Miss  Case  found  the  English  word. 

52 


FORTUNATA 

"And  how  long  do  you  think  I  have  been  abroad?" 
she  asked,  on  her  second  wind. 

"I  should  judge,  Mademoiselle,  from  the  difficulty 
you  have  in  speaking  your  own  language,  a  very 
short  while," 

"To  know  a  gentleman,  one  must  see  him  drunk," 
announced  the  Princess,  as  they  drove  home  in  the 
early  dawn.  "Guido  is  repulsive.  Mary  in  Heaven ! 
Antonia's  hands  are  as  cold  as  a  dead  lamb's  mouth 
— feel  them,  Luigi." 

Fortunata  had  come  home  blessedly  tired,  and 
was  sitting  on  her  bed,  having  kicked  off  her  high- 
heeled  slippers.  She  was  smiling,  thinking  of  her 
triumphs.  She  had  been  so  entertained — above  all, 
so  entertaining  that  she  had  not  eaten;  now  she 
felt  the  pangs  of  a  harassing  midnight  hunger.  She 
threw  on  her  wrapper,  caught  up  her  candle,  and 
passed  like  an  agile  ghost  through  the  dark  building. 
Avoiding  the  boards  that  creaked,  the  doors  that 
groaned — from  experience  through  youthful  maraud- 
ing expeditions — she  came  to  the  pantry,  a  cupboard 
that  gave  on  the  down-stairs  hall.  Disappointed 
in  her  gropings  among  the  tea  and  sticks  of  cinna- 
mon, she  cautiously  climbed  the  step-ladder  and 
sought  higher — here  only  brittle  sticks  of  vermicelli 
and  a  cake  of  cooking  chocolate.  A  chilly  breath 
of  air  passed,  and  the  candle  flame  wavered.  At 
times  mysterious  draughts  sighed  through  the 
palace.  Again  the  breath.  It  blew  the  flame  out, 
and  Fortunata  was  in  a  heavy  darkness.  Close  to 
her,  it  seemed,  faint  yet  horribly  distinct,  came  a 
sound.     She  stood  motionless,  frozen  with  horror. 

53 


FORTUNATA 

Again  the  sound!  It  spoke — and  Fortunata  knew 
Antonia's  voice! 

She  came  down  the  stairs,  swung  back  the  door 
and  glanced  into  the  hall.  Within  arm's  reach  of 
her,  near  a  window  and  in  the  eerie  lustre  of  the 
dawn,  stood  two  figures — their  faces  luminously  pale 
and  their  dark  hair  intermingled.  The  sleeves  of  a 
woman's  kimono  stirred  against  the  man  like  sails 
vibrating  in  a  breeze.  All  the  gales  of  heaven  might 
have  blown,  since  the  lovers  had  forgotten  the  wind 
and  the  cold,  all,  for  each  other's  lips.  The  door 
swung  to,  discreetly,  and  Fortunata  was  in  darkness. 
She  heard  Antonia  say : 

"Luigi,go!"      . 

And  he  answered:  "You  have  made  me  love  you. 
I  didn't  dare  to;  I  avoided  you!  What  is  it  that 
you  want?  That  I  should  give  you  up?  How 
can  I!" 

Then,  with  a  change  of  voice,  Antonia  cried:  "No, 
but  to  love  me!     Kiss  me,  Luigi!" 

Together,  walking  so  near  one  to  the  other  that 
they  could  have  cast  but  one  shadow,  the  woman 
and  the  man  passed,  holding  each  other  by  the 
hand,  with  a  kind  of  rapturous  sadness — for  passion 
is  melancholy,  there  being  in  this  world  no  entire 
communion.  The  heart  has  ever  before  it  the  fear 
of  change,  of  faithlessness,  of  satiety,  of  separation. 

Fortunata  stood  in  the  dark,  in  an  agony  of  sad- 
ness. Lightless,  she  groped  her  way  up  to  bed.  A 
curious  fact  it  was  that  this  selfish  young  girl  knew 
more  tenderness  for  her  half-sister,  the  Marchesa, 
than  for  all  other  humans  in  the  wide  world;  yet 
Antonia  was  forever  immersed  in  herself,  her  senti- 

54 


FORTUNATA 

ments,  her  emotions,  her  moods,  talking  of  her  tem- 
perament everlastingly,  vaporish  and  egotistical  to 
a  miracle. 

For  years  the  Marchesa  had  endured  a  miserable 
marriage.  Now  she  had  found  a  consoler,  and  this, 
according  to  the  Italian  point  of  view,  was  not  only 
natural  but  inevitable.  The  part  of  Penelope  was 
never  understood  on  the  Continent.  Does  a  woman 
love  her  husband,  him  only,  forever  and  at  all  times, 
Rome  will  smile  and  say,  "She  was  eccentric  al- 
ways." Society  looks  on  at  so  legitimate  an  affec- 
tion with  that  half-scornful  amusement  one  might 
feel  toward  a  convert  to  Buddhism  or  a  Kneipist,  or 
toward  a  maniac  who  is  persistent  in  going  to  bed  in 
smoked  glasses — "She  was  original,  always,  a  great 
poseuse." 

Although  an  Italian,  Fortunata  was  yet  disil- 
lusioned, bitterly  hurt,  as  though  her  sister  had 
failed  her. 

Who  is  truthful?  she  thought.  Who  is  good? 
She  herself  was  neither.  Nevertheless,  she  admired 
in  others  such  qualities  without  emulating  them. 
Besides,  in  a  family  there  must  be  some  one  to  turn 
to,  to  count  on,  to  believe  in — some  one  with  the 
simple,  sterling,  restful,  old-fashioned  virtues. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FORTUNATA  led  a  helter-skelter  life,  full  of 
noise  and  bustle.  She  rode,  visited,  tea'd,  all 
in  a  hurry.  She  danced  until  the  sun  was  up,  and 
as  she  passed  to  her  carriage,  her  partners  whispered 
to  her.  The  debutantes  said,  "That  is  Fortunata 
Rivallo — isn't  she  pretty  ?"  She  was  tired  at  times, 
mortally  tired.  The  business  seemed  so  aimless, 
she  would  say  to  herself,  "What's  it  all  for?"  There 
wasn't  one  face  at  the  ball,  theatre,  entertainment 
of  any  kind  which  she  cared  to  see  again.  To  keep 
in  the  fashion,  she  owed  modiste,  dressmaker, 
jeweller,  right  and  left.  She  contracted  debts  with 
an  ease  worthy  of  her  father.  The  dress  of  to-day 
was  ordered  without  the  means  of  paying  to-mor- 
row, and  as  for  the  debts  of  yesterday,  she  clean 
forgot  them.  Shop-people  were  lenient  with  her, 
as  indeed  was  every  one;  her  manner  of  owing — 
confiding,  childlike — would  have  disarmed  a  Jew 
pawnbroker. 

On  the  whole,  those  were  joyous  days.  She  never 
was  again  so  happy.  "To  be  happy,"  says  the 
proverb,  "one  needs  something  to  hope  for,  some- 
thing to  work  for,  and  something  to  love."  If  a 
perpetual  adoration  of  self  answer  to  a  human  affec- 
tion, Fortunata  had  a  heart  full  of  tenderness.  As 
for  hope,  she  longed  for  a  husband,  rich,  influential — 

56 


FORTUNATA 

attractive,  possibly;  as  for  work,  her  enemies  could 
not  have  accused  her,  at  least  where  her  social  ca- 
reer was  concerned,  of  carelessness,  idleness,  or  self- 
indulgence.  She  was  never  so  tired  but  she  could 
sparkle  and  smile ;  never  so  sad  but  she  could 
laugh  and  make  others  laugh;  always  on  the  qui 
vive  for  the  right  word,  awake  to  the  least  intona- 
tion, alive  to  every  point  of  view, 

Fortunata's  intimates  discussed  her  freely.  They 
were  attached  to  her,  nay,  they  were  devoted.  But 
was  she  beautiful,  was  she  clever  ?  Truth  compelled 
them  to  say  no — a  thousand  times  no.  Then  why 
was  it  women  infinitely  prettier,  incomparably  more 
brilliant,  failed  to  attain  an  equal  popularity?  Her 
friends  philosophized  on  the  shallow  taste  of  men 
in  general  and  the  curious  succession  of  accidents 
that  go  to  make  a  groundless  reputation.  Fortu- 
nata's talisman,  call  it  sympathy,  magnetism,  what 
you  will,  was  an  inheritance  of  her  father's  manner. 
Her  manner  was  her  genius.  Between  herself  and 
even  a  five  minutes'  acquaintance,  it  implied  a  bond 
of  sympathy,  a  secret  tie.  Her  eyes,  her  inflections 
of  voice  seemed  to  say,  ' '  How  charming,  how  witty, 
how  unusual  you  are!"  She  made  others  eloquent. 
She  spurred  on  their  hobbies.  "I"  was  a  word  she 
did  not  know;  it  was  always  "You,  you!"  Her 
"Yes"  implied  appreciation,  understanding;  her 
"Good-night"  was  an  art;  her  handshake,  warm 
and  living,  insinuated  a  caress.  Her  "Thank  you" 
inspired  a  man  to  devote  his  life  to  her  service. 

Her  desk  was  snowed  under  with  invitations. 
Every  day  of  the  season  a  luncheon.  Of  an  after- 
noon, drawn  by  her  aunt's  splendid  horses,   she 

57 


FORTUNATA 

drove  the  streets,  distributed  cards,  and  clasped 
the  hands  of  distraught  hostesses  distributing  tea. 
Night  after  night,  dinner  after  dinner. 

And  the  balls!  She  danced,  and  the  fiddlers  grew 
tired.  She  danced,  and  the  candles  burned  down, 
the  dowagers  yawned,  the  old  ladies  put  on  their 
shawls,  drew  on  their  galoshes.  But  her  partners 
were  never  weary.  Pale,  effulgent,  the  dawn  rose 
and  found  her  dancing  still.  If  the  next  morning 
chanced  to  be  a  hunting-day,  after  three  hours'  sleep 
she  might  have  been  seen  scouring  the  field  on  her 
lean  hunter,  her  campaign  hat  bravely  turned  up 
in  front,  her  stock  prodigiously  high,  looking  for 
all  the  world  like  a  little  Napoleon, 

She  had  an  army  of  suitors.  She  smiled  upon 
the  regiment;  she  encouraged  her  followers  and 
played  them  off  against  one  another.  She  saw  them 
jealous,  and  was  gratified.  She  saw  them  miserable, 
and  was  happy.  She  saw  them  foolish,  and  was 
hugely  entertained.  Yet  she  cared  not  a  lira  for 
the  lot.  Her  suitors  were  mostly  penniless.  A  life 
spent  with  such,  to  her  taste  would  be  but  sordid. 

"Why,"  she  would  ask,  with  admirable  common- 
sense — "why  encumber  one's  self  with  a  husband  if 
he  can  give  one  nothing?" 

"Love  is  only  love,"  the  Princess  Colibri  would 
answer;  "but  money,  Fortunata,  is  the  world." 

Her  love-affairs  were  no  pastime,  but  the  study  of 
an  art — the  art  of  subjugating  hearts.  To  be  de- 
sired, to  be  loved,  to  charm,  requires  so  tremulous  a 
sympathy,  an  interest  in  all  surroundings  so  vital 
and  bewitching,  such  patience,  such  endurance,  so 
subtle  a  knowledge  of  the  heart,  that  surely  a  pro- 

S8 


FORTUNATA 

ficient  flirt  is  no  contemptible  thing.  To  attract, 
Fortunata  had  long  regarded  as  a  paramount  duty, 
and  that  not  only  as  a  duty,  but  as  the  necessary 
struggle  to  keep  afloat  in  the  social  swim.  In  ques- 
tions of  love,  hers  was  an  unhappy  nature — she 
belonged  to  that  race  of  conquerors  of  men  who 
delight  only  in  the  pursuit  and  grow  indifferent  to 
the  ultimate  gain.  A  man's  devotion  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  it  was  not  enough  for  her.  The  world  must 
know.  The  ball-room  must  see  the  enamoured  swain 
following  her  footsteps  with  reverence  and  with 
passion;  the  rest  was  nothing.  When,  in  the  praise- 
worthy cause  of  regaining  a  deserter,  she  was  forced 
to  resign  a  few  hours  to  a  tete-k-tete  and  the  hold- 
ing of  hands,  she  was  driven  to  the  extremities  of 
boredom. 

It  was  strange  that  this  creature  who  seemed 
made  all  of  flame,  whose  eyes  in  a  moment  flashed 
or  grew  dangerously  tender,  whose  voice  knew  every 
grade  between  the  clear,  bird-like  tones  of  indiffer- 
ence and  those  throaty  emotional  notes,  should  be,  in 
truth,  as  passionless  as  the  sternest  moralist  could 
desire,  and,  had  her  vanity  not  been  so  monstrous, 
as  pure.  A  type  of  woman  not  uncommon,  yet,  in 
the  long  run,  more  undermining  to  morals  than  the 
most  unbridled  passion;  a  type  of  woman  who  in 
matters  of  love  is  without  scruple,  without  mercy, 
without  one  faithful  quality.  In  vanity,  ardent, 
insatiable,  more  ravenous  than  the  cormorant. 

But  hers  was  not  an  easy  life;  hampered  for 
money,  her  family  in  bad  odor,  herself  as  proud  as 
Lucifer  and  thinking  the  best  hardly  good  enough 
— the   odds   were   against   her.    She   encountered 

59 


FORTUNATA 

slights;  was  called  upon  to  kow-tow  to  unsym- 
pathetic people;  she  dared  never  speak  her  own 
mind;  was  forced  to  weigh  every  word;  ferret  out 
a  good  match;  seem  bright  and  responsive  always; 
listen  to  fools  as  though  they  were  wise  men,  and 
when  bored  keep  a  pleasant  face.  She  was  versatile 
enough  to  charm  the  dowagers  and  at  the  same 
time  fascinate  their  grandsons.  One  is  either  gain- 
ing or  losing,  no  one  ever  remains  stationary.  It 
was  a  bitter  struggle,  as  is  every  profession  where 
competition  enters.  A  soldier  is  wounded  and  falls 
out  of  the  ranks;  a  woman  in  society  may  be  ill, 
may  be  sad,  but  whether  in  agony  or  broken-hearted 
she  must  be  at  her  post,  for  that  very  night  the 
chance  of  her  life  may  go  by  or  the  rival  she  fears 
may  gain  on  her.  Yet,  handicapped  as  Fortunata 
was,  she  held  her  own  among  American  heiresses, 
Italian  beauties,  girls  far  richer  and  prettier  than 
she.  Little  by  little  she  crept  into  prominence; 
she  began  to  figure  as  a  personality.  A  bishop 
would  have  thought  her  a  sweet  girl;  a  roue,  a  per- 
verted coquette.  She  ranked  at  first  as  the  most 
attractive  debutante,  then  took  place  among  the 
charming  girls  a  city  is  proud  to  have  strangers  to 
meet.  Next,  some  one  discovered  that  she  was 
fascinating,  unique,  that  there  was  no  one  like  her. 
It  became  the  rage  to  say,  "Ah,  La  Rivallo! — what  a 
charming,  what  a  divine  creature !"  Thus  one  morn- 
ing Fortunata  awoke  to  find  herself  famous. 

The  Princess  Colibri  was  proud;  she  grew  lavish, 
entertained;  she  swore  that  her  protegee  should 
have  a  ball.  The  shutters  of  the  state  apartments 
were  flung  wide.     The  vast  halls  saw  the  light; 

60 


FORTUNATA 

the  suits  of  armor  stood  astonished  at  the  sun — 
casqued  warriors  leaning  on  their  spears,  waiting, 
always  waiting.  For  the  first  time  in  twenty  years, 
since  Conte  Ugo  Rivallo  had  brought  home  Annie 
Brandelsbury  as  his  bride,  the  cobwebs  were  swept 
from  the  walls. 

Fortunata  came  into  her  kingdom,  as  it  were. 
She  was  feted,  adored,  made  giddy  with  words  of 
love,  with  proposals  of  marriage.  But,  alas!  her 
devoted  admirers  were  mostly  half-pay  officers, 
young  Italian  nobles  without  a  lira.  She  kept  her 
head;  she  was  cautious;  she  said  "No!"  The  Prin- 
cess approved  her  tactics.  "Attenzione,  bellissima 
mia!"  the  Princess  would  say,  laying  her  finger 
alongside  her  evil  old  nose.  "What  do  we  come 
into  this  world  for,  unless  to  die  better  off  than  we 
were  bom?" 

However  much  Fortimata  disdained  the  poses  and 
cheap  wit  of  her  eccentric  relative,  nevertheless  her 
aunt's  precepts  accorded  too  well  with  her  own  ideas 
not  to  carry  a  certain  weight.  The  old  heathen 
who  had  forsaken  her  God,  who  cheated  at  cards 
like  a  sharper,  who  knew  no  charity,  nor  truth,  nor 
honor,  had,  nevertheless,  her  own  code  of  laws,  her 
own  principles,  her  own  right  and  wrong.  In  the 
Colibri's  mind,  the  nonentity,  the  one  who  failed 
was  a  criminal.  She  was  merciless  to  the  girl  who 
chose  an  obscure  love-match  rather  than  barter 
herself  for  a  roimd  sum.  Such  self-indulgence  was 
disgusting. 

Fortimata  dreaded  love  as  one  might  dread  a 
fever.  A  passion  such  as  that  of  Don  Luigi  and  the 
Marchesa,  she  thought,  must  be  an  obsession  of  the 

6i 


FORTUNATA 

heart,  a  slavery  of  the  senses,  something  fatal,  de- 
grading. The  lovers  did  not  seem  happy,  yet  they 
were  constantly  together.  No  one  molested  them, 
and  Guido  proved  as  blind  as  a  mole.  The  Colibri 
was  most  obliging.  She  smoothed  out  the  course 
of  love,  proverbially  rough;  ran  her  house  to  please 
the  lovers;  was  all  discretion  and  tact.  She  nour- 
ished and  shielded  this  passion  as  though  it  were  a 
monster  that  she  loved  and  meant  to  make  use  of. 
The  rest  of  the  household  strove  to  be  helpful,  with 
the  exception  of  Billford,  unconscious  of  the  situa- 
tion, Fortunata's  mother  busy  taking  pills,  and 
Francesca,  who  did  not  count.  The  others  with  one 
accord  distracted  Guido.  The  very  servants  pro- 
tected the  lovers — all  Italians  are  lenient  to  love. 
They  made  no  secret  of  their  relations — they  were 
to  be  seen  at  night  passing  through  the  dim  halls, 
walking  slowly,  close  together,  his  arm  about  her, 
her  long  hair  falling  like  a  storm-cloud  over  his 
shoulder.  Meanwhile  Guido  lounged  down  -  stairs, 
swigging  harolo.  He  was  chronically  drunk,  sang 
and  raved  in  the  halls,  or,  more  often,  sat  about  be- 
sotted, his  feet  in  their  long-toed  foreign  boots  rest- 
ing on  the  table.  He  let  his  wife  go  her  own  way, 
while  he  went  his.  But  the  road  to  Hades  is  not 
always  easy.  The  lovers  suffered;  each  was  the 
other's  bane;  they  were  suspicious,  jealous,  unsatis- 
fied. They  indulged  in  orgies  of  anger,  as  it  were, 
in  debauches  of  rage.  In  one  of  these  perverted 
transports,  Luigi  seized  Antonia  by  the  hand  and 
gave  her  wrist  a  wrench,  calling  her  names  unfit  to 
be  told.  She  fell  on  her  knees,  her  hair  sweeping 
the  floor,   and  her  cries  made  the  Palazzo  ring. 

0? 


FORTUNATA 

Down-stairs  some  of  the  family  gathered  about  the 
studious  green  lamp,  exchanged  knowing  glances, 
wagged  their  heads,  while  Miss  Billford  wondered, 
and,  innocent  as  a  babe,  asked  Dacampagna  what 
ailed  his  amiable  lady. 

The  passion  of  Don  Luigi  and  Antonia  was  of  that 
ominous  nature  whose  mark  is  jealousy,  unfaithful- 
ness, tumultuous  anger,  whose  relapses  to  tender- 
ness are  even  more  ill-fated — a  love  incomplete,  un- 
satisfying, yet  impossible  to  shake  off.  He  had  at 
first  been  attracted  by  her  beauty,  by  her  melan- 
choly, that  so  well  became  her.  Now  he  found  his 
heart  more  compromised  than  he  had  thought  pos- 
sible, and  was  held  by  her  self-abandonment,  her 
stormy  tenderness  and  attacks  of  conscience.  At 
first,  he  believed  this  remorse  feigned.  He  was  to 
learn,  however,  that  Antonia  pretended  an  emotion 
as  little  as  she  concealed  one. 

Lent  came  in.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  chim- 
ing of  bells,  solemn  processions  filed  through  the 
streets.  The  churches  rang  to  the  De  Profundis. 
Balls,  dinners,  festas  were  no  more — the  pious 
fasted.  Antonia  swathed  herself  in  black,  grew 
severe  with  lack  of  food,  and  pale  as  any  phantom. 
She  trod  the  halls  of  the  Palazzo  as  though  pacing 
a  cloister,  fingered  her  rosary,  and  passed  Don  Luigi 
with  head  averted. 

Don  Luigi,  saddened  by  the  austerity  of  his  mis- 
tress, turned  to  Fortunata  for  diversion,  but  re- 
ceived little  encouragement .  His  ' '  dearest  mother, ' ' 
he  suddenly  remembered,  had  written  from  Florence, 
entreating  him  to  come  to  her,  and  he  took  himself 
off,  after  having  in  vain  tried  to  work  out  of  his 

63 


FORTUNATA 

brother  "a  trifling  loan,  a  mere  nothing."  Guide, 
who  ate  mostly  away  from  home,  declared  that  he 
was  fasting,  had  given  up  meat  for  Lent.  This  state- 
ment was  met  with  general  incredulity,  "Though, 
of  course,"  admitted  the  Princess,  "it  may  be  true, 
for  he  is  drunker  than  ever,  which  either  proves  that 
he  eats  less  or  drinks  more."  The  Colibri,  getting 
wind  that  one  of  her  rivals,  an  old  buffoon  who,  like 
herself,  affected  the  eccentric  and  ridiculous,  had  a 
change  of  heart  and  had  taken  a  priest  into  her  pal- 
ace for  the  Lenten  season,  was  fired  with  emulation, 
and  she  withdrew  to  the  convent  of  the  Assumptione, 
a  very  austere  order,  to  make  what  is  called  a  re- 
treat. How  the  godless  old  woman  passed  her  time 
among  the  Sisters  of  the  Poor  none  ever  knew. 
Fortunata  found  herself  practically  alone.  Nonen- 
tities such  as  her  mother,  her  younger  sister,  and  the 
governess  did  not  count.  Eugenio  was  now  in  Eng- 
land, supposedly  deep  in  work  at  Oxford.  The 
Contessina  passed  her  time  straightening  out  her 
entangled  love  -  affairs,  and  trying  to  make  out  of 
no  money  at  all  enough  to  buy  her  summer  ward- 
robe. The  Palazzo  was  as  sober  as  a  cloister.  Miss 
Case  made  daily  incursions.  Her  loud,  affected 
voice,  her  foreign  cries  of,  "Fortunata,  carissima, 
bellissima,  ma  ch6rie!"  echoed  falsely  through  the 
palace.  She  was  vulgar,  compared  with  the  other 
bread-and-butter  Misses  of  Rome.  The  girls  drank 
tea  together  in  the  vast  hall.  They  bragged  of  their 
invitations,  confided  their  love-affairs,  hinted  at 
their  lovers,  whispered  scandal,  and  lamented  the 
dulness  of  Lent. 
At  last  the  forty  days  of  mourning  were  over. 

64 


FORTUNATA 

The  Colibri  emerged  from  her   retreat  wearing  a 
smug  air  of  propriety. 

At  the  first  whisper  of  spring,  Don  Luigi  forgot 
Florence,  forgot  his  mother,  and  came  post  -  haste 
to  the  Palazzo.  In  the  rejuvenation  of  the  season, 
Rome  grew  young.  The  hawkers  found  stronger 
voices,  the  women  looked  prettier;  the  flowers 
bloomed  as  though  by  magic.  Even  Guido  became 
affable.  "Fragoli,  fragoli!"  shouted  the  strawberry 
sellers.  The  women,  in  their  spring  finery,  vied  in 
color  with  the  flowers  of  the  Piazza  di  Spagna — 
tulips,  lilies,  roses,  painted  as  it  were  with  blood. 
Fortunata's  friends  instigated  automobiling  parties 
to  Tivoli,  to  Frascati,  to  Subiaco.  The  Italians, 
with  their  inevitable  dramatic  sense,  were  costumed 
for  these  excursions  like  the  chorus  in  a  comic  opera 
— neglig6  shirts,  turned-down  collars,  flowing  ties, 
linen  checked  to  cause  astigmatism.  They  gave 
themselves  to  pleasure  as  other  nations  do  to  drink. 
They  liked  everybody;  were  amused  at  everything; 
they  rode  on  donkeys,  and  interchanged  words  of 
love.  They  lunched  at  newly  discovered  inns.  In 
vine-covered  arbors  they  ate  vitello,  vermicelli,  and 
risotto;  they  drank  the  sweet  wines  of  the  country; 
with  the  pretty  manners  that  never  forsake  their 
race,  they  toasted  each  other,  exchanged  flattering 
speeches,  and  in  the  sun  they  laughed  like  a  com- 
pany of  fauns  whose  only  business  is  to  be  happy. 
Such  a  nation !  They  have  not  their  equal  the  world 
over  for  charm,  for  grace,  for  the  ways  that  endear; 
they  glow  at  a  word;  every  humor  becomes  them; 
they  make  a  friend  with  a  side-glance,  and  take 
your  heart  with  a  smile. 
S  6s 


FORTUNATA 

As  the  spring  waned  and  the  sun  grew  furious, 
Fortunata's  mother,  the  Contessa,  complained  of 
more  ills  than  Job  himself.  She  and  Francesca  took 
train  for  Porto  d'Ancio — the  more  fashionable 
watering-places,  for  lack  of  means,  were  denied  them. 
Miss  Billford  accompanied  them.  The  governess's 
wages  were  due  now  for  over  a  year;  no  one  seemed 
to  know  what  was  to  be  done  about  it.  The  Colibri 
declared  that  the  Contessa  must  pay;  the  Contessa 
wailed  her  inability.  "After  all,"  observed  the 
Princess,  "one  can't  turn  such  a  poor  old  orphan 
adrift." 

Fortunata  stayed  on,  to  her  secret  satisfaction, 
with  the  Princess,  Antonia,  and  Luigi  in  the  stifling 
Roman  heat. 

Eugenio  now  came  home  from  England.  He  was 
through,  he  said,  with  that  country  of  snobs  and 
vandals.  Oxford  had  done  him  little  good.  He 
was  the  same,  half-fop,  half -aesthete.  He  took  to 
his  flowered  dressing-gown  again,  had  his  hair  waved, 
and  wrote  verses.  Meanwhile,  however  fierce  the 
days,  the  nights  were  balmy ;  the  moon  and  the  stars, 
veiled  in  a  mist  of  heat,  discreetly  forgot  to  watch 
the  earth.  At  night  in  the  Palazzo  gardens,  the 
nightingales  sang,  breathed  out  a  rapturous  note, 
repeated,  tender  as  a  sigh.  In  the  voluptuous  sweet- 
ness of  the  night,  Don  Luigi  and  the  Marchesa  for- 
got their  grievances,  their  jealousies.  The  myrtle, 
the  laurel,  the  rampant  plants,  expanded  and  bred 
in  the  sun,  stirred  by  the  breath  of  the  night,  rustled 
in  the  dark. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ANTONIA  had  made  Fortunata  her  confidante. 
Jr\  The  Marchesa  saw  nothing  out  of  place  in  re- 
veaHng  to  a  younger  sister  the  secrets  of  her  love. 

"I  must  lose  him,  Fortunata,  I  never  forget  it. 
He  will  marry.  It  is  right  that  he  should.  I  am 
prepared  for  it,  as  I  am  prepared  for  death,  for  old 
age. 

"Luigi  will  never  dream  of  such  a  thing,"  Fortu- 
nata assured. 

"He  will  marry,"  The  Marchesa  held  up  her 
long  forefinger.     "It  is  as  certain  as  death  itself." 

Fortunata  consoled  her  as  best  she  might. 

On  his  side,  Don  Luigi  was  not  silent.  He  thought 
Fortunata  divine.  Since  she  would  not  let  him 
make  love  to  her,  he  did  the  next  best  thing  and 
talked  to  her  about  love. 

One  afternoon  Fortunata  sat  in  the  garden  in  the 
shade  of  a  cypress-tree.  She  had  a  book  in  her  lap, 
a  cigarette  in  her  hand,  and  felt  kindly  to  all  the 
world.  Luigi  sauntered  past  in  his  pearl-gray  suit 
fitted  in  at  the  waist.  She  watched  him  awhile, 
amused  by  his  swagger.  He  felt  her  eyes  upon 
him.  She  said  nothing,  and  he  came  and  sat  down 
on  the  ground  beside  her.  He  took  off  his  hat,  his 
hair  was  in  tight  curls  with  the  heat;  with  a  silk 
scarf  he  wiped  his  brow;  a  fragrance  of  tuberose 
was  wafted  through  the  air. 

67 


FORTUNATA 

"Antonia's  perfume,"  he  said,  waving  the  hand- 
kerchief before  Fortunata's  nose. 

They  sat  side  by  side,  more  or  less  silent,  enjoy- 
ing the  shade.  His  mustache  was  brushed  up, 
almost  into  his  eyes.  There  was  something  virile, 
feline  about  him  that  suggested  a  panther.  Fortu- 
nata  yawned;   after  a  pause  she  said: 

"Antonia  was  calling  you  awhile  ago." 

"Aye!  Antonia!"  He  made  a  gesture  with  his 
hand  as  though  throwing  a  quoit.  "What  madness, 
what  folly,  Fortunata!  Yesterday  Antonia  said 
to  me,  'Luigi,  let  us  go  away  together,  to  America, 
to  Australia — ^non  lo  so.  I  stand  before  Guido  this 
way — '"  He  dropped  his  head  forward,  imitating 
the  Marchesa.  "'Antonia,'  I  told  her,  'you  are 
mad!'    And  she  cried,  she  cried!" 

Sincerely,  without  any  wish  to  be  funny,  he 
imitated  a  woman  weeping.  "Santo  Spirito,  can 
such  things  be  ?  While  a  wife  is  with  her  husband, 
it  is  all  very  well;  but  when  she  leaves  him,  who 
then  speaks  kindly  of  her,  where  is  her  character? 
Like  this" — ^he  held  out  his  palms,  blew  on  them, 
then  spread  his  fingers — "it  is  gone  forever!" 

' '  Gone  forever !' '  corroborated  Fortunata.  She  was 
far  too  much  of  an  Italian  to  see  anything  unusual 
in  the  discussion. 

"And  besides,"  continued  Don  Luigi,  with  the 
simplicity  that  cropped  out  in  him  at  times,  "I 
should  not  like  it.  It  would  cause  me  much  dis- 
comfort. Guido  would  find  me  out,  challenge  me. 
He  is  a  good  shot,  che  diavolo!  I  am  never  afraid, 
but  life  is  dear,  Contessina.  Antonia  and  I  must 
creep  off,  like  robbers  in  the  night.     I  don't  steal 

68 


FORTUNATA 

a  man's  wife,  per  Dio!  and  carry  her  away  from 
him.  Then,  how  should  we  Hve?  Guido,  only, 
has  money.  Aye,  Madonna,  is  such  a  thing  pos- 
sible?" 

"Quite  impossible,"  agreed  Fortunata. 

He  turned  violently  toward  her.  "You  angel!" 
he  cried,  seizing  both  her  hands.  "Talk  with  An- 
tonia,  Fortunata.  Show  her  it  cannot  be.  Tell 
her  it  is  madness — absolute  insanity." 

"I  will  tell  her." 

"Ah,  thank  you,  thank  you!"  He  kissed  her 
hands  rapidly,  first  one,  then  the  other,  with  a  fer- 
vor that  suggested  something  more  than  gratitude. 

From  her  grandfather,  perhaps,  the  business 
American,  Fortunata  had  inherited  method,  a  sense 
of  the  value  of  time,  and  courage  for  work.  In  a 
padlocked  tin  cake-box  she  kept  systematically 
ticketed  all  the  love-letters  she  had  ever  received. 
There  were  packets  as  thick  as  a  volume;  others, 
single  letters  from  anonymous  admirers,  sent  after 
the  Italian  fashion.  There  were  trinkets,  original 
poems,  pressed  flowers,  and  tokens  innumerable. 
She  treasured  these,  not  because  they  were  dear  to 
her  or  evoked  tender  remembrances,  but  as  proofs 
of  her  ability.  She  sorted  and  labelled  them  as  a 
public  man  might  sort  his  newspaper  clippings.  She 
kept  a  list  of  her  admirers,  of  the  men  she  flirted 
and  danced  with;  another  of  such  as  had  proposed; 
and  a  third  of  those  who  she  thought  really  loved 
her.  The  first  and  the  second  categories  filled 
pages,  the  third  was  shorter.  Among  the  names 
was  that  of  a  young  Italian,  the  Marchese  Guasconti, 
popular  then  in  Rome.     He  was  a  gentleman,  good- 

69 


FORTUNATA 

looking  and  agreeable,  though  deplorably  poor.  His 
poverty,  one  might  have  thought,  would  have  saved 
him  from  Fortunata's  wiles,  yet  she  gave  him  no 
rest  until  he  was  in  love  with  her,  so  desperately  in 
love  that  he  followed  her  about  in  asinine  fashion, 
in  the  sight  of  all  Rome,  He  proposed  to  her  re- 
peatedly. She  replied  in  an  indefinite  way,  after 
the  manner  of  women  of  her  type.  Her  answers 
meant  "I  can't  marry  you,  but  keep  on  making 
love  to  me.  Be  a  sentimental  old  bachelor  for  my 
sake."  At  last  he  placed  her  in  a  position  where 
there  was  no  avoiding  the  issue.  If  she  said  no, 
she  knew  she  must  lose  him,  so  she  made  it  yes,  but 
stipulated  that  their  engagement  be  kept  secret. 
Her  mother,  she  explained,  was  under  the  influence 
of  her  aunt,  and  the  Princess  Colibri,  she  declared, 
would  never  hear  of  her  making  a  match  that  was 
not  brilliant  from  a  pecuniary  standpoint.  Guas- 
conti  agreed  to  silence.  Missionary  work  in  dark- 
est Africa  was  not  further  from  Fortunata's  plans 
than  was  this  marriage,  yet  her  answers  were  almost 
as  insanely  fond  as  his  own  letters.  She  saw  him 
every  day,  or,  if  too  much  occurred,  she  appointed 
an  hour  in  the  night,  after  an  entertainment,  for 
the  season  was  now  again  in  full  swing.  On  the  lower 
floor  of  the  palace,  through  a  barred  window,  Fortuna- 
ta  whispered  to  Guasconti  out  in  the  damp  and  dreary 
cold  of  October — a  sad  season  that  year.  The  dawn 
was  unbecoming  to  her  lover,  and  she  feared  like- 
wise to  herself.  His  face  was  cadaverous  and  his 
nose  blue.  Why  endure  such  discomfort?  Merely 
to  prove  that  a  man  who  had  once  loved  her  could 
not  easily  leave  or  forget  her.     Perhaps  she  hoped, 

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FORTUNATA 

incredible  as  it  may  seem,  that  when  she  broke  with 
Guasconti,  he  would  in  some  way  make  her  famous 
— threaten  to  shoot  her  or  commit  suicide.  A  wise 
proverb  says,  "Beware  of  those  who  have  never  suf- 
fered . ' '  Fortunata  had  never  known  the  pangs  of  love . 
With  Guasconti  she  planned  their  wedding  journey, 
the  whereabouts  of  their  honeymoon.  She  smiled 
upon  their  mutual  future,  yet  all  the  while  she  was 
looking  for  a  way  of  escape.  Guasconti's  attentions, 
she  feared,  had  begun  to  compromise  her,  and  to 
cut  off  other  suitors.  In  her  difficulty  she  turned 
to  her  aunt.  The  Princess  and  she  had  been  wont 
to  himt  in  couples.  Her  Excellency  undertook  a 
little  comedy,  and  played  the  part  of  a  brutal  rela- 
tive, tyrannizing  over  a  weak-willed  but  affection- 
ate young  girl.  When,  after  the  interview^  Guas- 
conti, looking  old  and  shaken,  came  to  Fortunata, 
she  found  to  her  surprise  that  she  could  cry.  She 
wept  upon  his  shoulder  very  piteously — natural  tears, 
for  she  had  been  anxious  as  to  the  issue  of  her  plan 
— ^and  was  nervous  and  overwrought.  He  held  her 
in  his  arms  and  thought  her  broken-hearted.  He 
comforted  and  soothed  her.  When  one  loves  so 
entirely  how  can  one  doubt,  how  blame?  And  so 
he  left  her.  So  cleverly  had  she  acted  that  he  felt 
for  her  no  bitterness,  no  disillusionment — he  loved 
her  if  anything  the  more. 

Fortunata  was  one  of  those  who  observe  them- 
selves as  they  pass  through  life.  She  would  watch 
herself  come  into  a  room,  bow,  shake  hands,  com- 
pliment. She  was  aware  of  any  defects  in  her 
manner;  she  noted,  as  might  an  onlooker,  her  sweet, 
spontaneous  smile.    And  so,  instead  of  feeling  re- 

71 


FORTUNATA 

morse  for  the  undeniable  wrong  she  had  done  a  man 
who  devotedly  loved  her,  she  was  occupied  in  watch- 
ing her  own  attitudes  while  passing  through  so  dis- 
agreeable a  phase. 

There  had  never  been  any  one  to  turn  Fortunata 
into  the  right  way,  to  say,  "Keep  your  face  to  the 
light,  and  remember  there  is  more  to  be  done  in 
the  world  than  to  confound  Cardinal  Santinello  and 
bring  down  your  waist  to  eighteen  inches.  Your 
help  and  your  love,  and  some  of  your  life's  blood, 
must  be  given  before  you  come  to  the  end  of  the 
road." 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  the  hour  of  the  colazzione.  The  Colibri  and 
her  relatives  were  at  liinch.  All  were  there  ex- 
cept Luigi  and  Guido,  who  were  gone  to  the  races. 
Antonia  had  risen  from  the  table,  and  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room  she  was  supervising  the  placing  of 
some  plants,  pointing  gravely  with  a  banana, 

"A  letter,  Eccellenza,  from  the  Queen  Mother." 

Nello  bowed  low  with  the  salver.     The  Princess 

took  up  the  envelope,  stamped  with  the  royal  arms 

— a  scarlet  shield  bearing  a  white  cross,  right  and 

left  two  lions,  and  hung  with  the  purple. 

"A  welcome  letter."  Her  Excellency's  voice  was 
so  gentle  as  to  startle  the  servant.  The  Princess 
tore  open  the  envelope.  As  she  read  her  face  grew 
almost  kind.  "Fortunata,  she  speaks  of  you.  She 
writes:  'You  have,  I  understand,  a  charming  niece, 
the  Contessina  Fortunata  Rivallo.  I  hear  much  of 
her  beauty,  her  lovely  manners.  I  wish  to  know 
her.  In  our  youth  you  and  I  were  so  often  together 
that  all  those  who  are  near  to  you,  Prudenzia,  must 
be  dear  to  me.'  Adorable  woman!"  the  Princess 
cried,  in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  and  she  kissed  the 
letter  repeatedly.  She  read  on:  "Ha!  she  mentions 
your  mother,  Fortunata,  says  she  remembers  meet- 
ing her."  The  Colibri  grunted.  "I  have  heard 
your  father  tell  of  the  interview.    All  through  the 

73 


FORTUNATA 

presentation,  it  seems,  Annie  had  the  hiccoughs. 
Nevertheless,  the  Queen  Mother  wants  to  see  you, 
Fortunata;  and  you,  too,  Eugenio — and  by  the 
Madonna,  Francesca  as  well.  Francesca,  I  suppose, 
must  go.     I  am  afraid  that  she  must  be  shown." 

"Oh,  the  dear,  sweet,  gracious  Queen!"  Fran- 
cesca was  transported.  "Oh,  Zia!  What  shall  I 
wear?  My  blue  dress  with  the  little,  tiny  polka- 
dots!"  And  the  poor  little  soul  beamed  north  and 
south  in  her  joy. 

"First,"  commanded  the  Princess,  "lift  off  that 
pompadour.  It  hangs  down  around  your  face  like 
a  life-preserver.     You  will  smother  under  it." 

"And  remember,  Francesca,"  murmured  Miss  Bill- 
ford,  her  finger  on  her  lip,  her  head  held  on  one  side, 
"remember,  it  is  not  the  attire  that  makes  the 
gentlewoman,  but  her  conduct,  elegant,  yet  modest. 
When  our  late  Queen,  the  virtuous  Victoria — " 

The  Princess  rapped  with  her  fork  on  the  drink- 
ing glass.  "Fortunata,  Eugenio,  the  interview  is  for 
this  afternoon!  You  will  see  the  only  good  woman 
I  have  ever  known,  the  only  really  good  woman 
who  is  not  a  bore,  or  a  hypocrite,  or  a  fool." 

Eugenio  looked  toward  his  aunt.  "I  am  a  so- 
cialist," he  said,  "or,  rather,  have  just  become  one. 
I  can  have  little  to  say  to  a  Queen,  but  I  will  go." 

The  Colibri  had  fallen  back  in  her  chair  and,  with 
the  uncouth  manners  peculiar  to  her,  was  scratch- 
ing her  nose  with  the  edge  of  the  envelope,  her  feat- 
ures spread  in  a  fatuous  smile.  "By-the-way,  no 
mention  is  made  of  our  dear  Marchesa.  How  does 
that  happen?"  The  old  woman  bent  a  little  for- 
ward, folded  her  arms  and  stared  across  the  room, 

74 


FORTUNATA 

intent,  fierce.  "Have  a  care,  Antonia.  It's  no 
good  omen  when  the  Queen  Mother  forgets  you. 
It  means  you're  sinking,  going  down.  It  means 
a  shrugging  when  your  name  is  spoken.  The  Queen 
Mother  is  strict.  She  gave  the  Monte  Chiaro  the 
Collar  of  the  Virgin  for  giving  up  her  lover.  Fortu- 
nata,  don't  I  keep  saying — Billford,  go  away,  you 
don't  understand  this.  Francesca,  take  Billford 
away.  Don't  I  keep  saying,  Fortunata,  that  the 
first  thing  I  know  I'll  have  all  Rome  pointing  the 
finger  at  me.  I'll  be  accused  of  harboring  im- 
morality, of  letting  vice  grow  rampant  in  my  house. 
You're  so  indiscreet,  Antonia,  so  drivellingly  fool- 
ish. Can't  you  be  happy  without  letting  the  whole 
world  know  ?  Look  at  me,  Antonia!  Per  Dio,  give 
up  digging  in  those  flower-pots!  I  am  speaking  for 
your  good.  Sangue  di  Dio!  It's  no  use  helping 
those  who  won't  be  saved;  you  can't  keep  a  pig 
out  of  a  trough." 

"Nello,"  said  Antonia,  dreamily,  pointing  to  the 
tubs  of  oleander  and  myrtle,  "in  placing  the  plants, 
try  to  have  a  conception  of  a  harmonious  whole." 

"Yes,  Signora  Marchesa." 

Antonia  flung  out  her  arms  in  sudden  despair. 
"Nello  has  no  decorative  genius,  no  idea  of  the 
beautiful,  Principessa!"  she  cried. 

At  the  hour  appointed  by  the  Queen  Mother, 
Fortunata  appeared  and  came  swiftly  down  the 
stairs  to  where  the  Princess  stood  in  the  hall  lean- 
ing on  her  cane,  and  blowing  the  smoke  from  her 
cigarette  through  her  brutal,  trumpet-shaped  nose. 
Somehow,  the  mantle  worn  by  the  Contessina  gave 
her  the  look  of  being  disguised,  loaned  her  an  air 

75 


FORTUNATA 

discreet,  mysterious.  Next,  Eugenio  passed  his 
aunt  with  a  bow,  and,  finally,  led  by  Miss  Billford, 
Francesca  appeared,  washed  within  an  inch  of  her 
life,  smelling  of  soap,  shining  from  it. 

"Do  I  look  nice,  aunt?"  she  asked,  rather  pite- 
ously. 

The  Princess  grasped  her  niece  by  the  ear  and 
gave  it  a  tweak.  "You  are  antiseptic!"  shouted  her 
Excellency,  and  burst  into  a  boisterous  laugh. 

In  the  carriage  Eugenio  was  leaning  back  non- 
chalantly, his  arm  passed  through  the  window- 
strap,  his  long,  delicate  hand  trembling  to  the 
motion  of  the  carriage. 

"Ah,"  he  was  saying,  "half  of  the  ills  we  suffer 
sprout  from  the  throne.  Down  with  royalty,  I  say! 
I  have  joined  a  society.  They  pay  me  great  respect. 
I  am  the  only  aristocrat  in  it.  I  am  like  Shelley, 
Fortunata!"  he  cried,  shaking  his  hair  back  off  his 
forehead.  "I  dream  of  a  new  world  where  all  men 
are  equal.  Italy  is  in  a  stage  of  transition.  We 
are  on  a  pilgrimage  to  something  better.  It  is  a 
sad  time  we  live  in." 

For  such  a  weary  pilgrim,  Conte  Rivallo  wore  very 
modish  boots.  Meanwhile  Francesca  was  droning: 
"I  must  curtsey  once,  twice,  thrice;  I  must  not 
interrupt;  I  must  not  contradict;  I  must  not  cross 
my  knees." 

Fortunata  answered  both  brother  and  sister  po- 
litely, but,  in  truth,  she  hardly  heard  them.  She 
was  fighting  her  own  problems.  She  was  deep  in 
debt;  the  very  cloak  that  enveloped  her,  the  shoes 
on  her  feet,  the  hat  she  wore — a  trophy  of  plumes — 
were  all  as  good  as  stolen.     She  dreaded  every  mail. 

76 


FORTUNATA 

"Madame  Rigmarole,  Modiste  of  the  Queen,  en- 
treats the  Signorina  Rivallo — "  "From  Peaux, 
Furrier  to  his  Majesty:  One  ermine-lined  mantle, 
one  muff,  and  boa  of  sables,  etc."  At  first  mere 
billets  doux,  hints  as  to  the  passing  of  time,  now 
regular  dunning  bills,  commands  for  payment, 
threats.  She  could  not  hope  for  her  income  until 
May — an  allowance  of  a  few  thousand  lire  was 
meagre  meat  for  all  the  ravening  wolves  she  had  to 
feed.  The  future  looked  black  to  her.  At  moments 
she  was  tempted  to  shift  the  weight  of  debt,  to  get 
out  of  it  all,  to  slip  away  with  de  Brillac,  or  with 
some  one  of  the  other  penniless  men  who  dared  her 
to  live  with  them  on  nothing.  The  prospect  was 
not  inviting.  She  saw  herself  decamping  from  the 
Continent,  harassed  for  money,  badgered  by  credit- 
ors, dodging  the  law,  like  her  father  before  her. 

Why  doesn't  some  one  with  money  ever  like  me? 
she  thought.  And  she  fell  into  a  melancholy  rev- 
erie as  the  carriage  drew  up  before  the  gates  of  the 
palace  of  the  Queen  Mother. 

As  the  trio  drove  home  through  the  dusk,  Eugenio 
bent  forward,  seized  Fortunata's  wrist,  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"Ah,  my  sister,  I  was  proud  this  afternoon  to 
remember  that  the  Rivallos  have  been  always  ready 
to  die  for  King  or  Queen  or  country.  As  I  sat  tiiere 
and  listened,  and  looked  at  her,  I  understood.  It's 
glorious  to  have  some  one  to  give  your  life  for. 
Think  of  us  Italians  for  over  one  hundred  years 
cutting  each  other's  throats  for  an  Albizzi  or  a 
Cosimo.  Think  of  Lancaster  and  York!  Think  of 
the  Vieille  Garde  marching  into  Russia  to  turn  to 

77 


FORTUNATA 

ice.  Think  of  men  that  went  to  hell  for  Mary 
Stuart.  Isn't  it  fine;  isn't  it  splendid;  doesn't  it 
make  thrills  go  up  your  spine!"  The  young  man 
threw  back  his  head  and  flung  out  his  arms  wide. 

In  the  court  of  the  Palazzo  Colibri  the  Duchessa 
da  Monte  Chiaro's  roans  champed  their  bits.  In 
the  sala  the  Princess  and  her  crony,  the  Duchessa, 
sat  jowl  to  jowl  in  the  twilight,  their  evil  old  faces 
all  but  touching.  They  hissed  scandal,  venom,  and 
cackled  over  the  abominations  each  whispered  to 
the  other.  At  the  sound  of  footsteps,  "Fortunata! 
Eugenio!"  cried  the  Colibri.  Coco  stretched  his 
throat  and  let  loose  a  volley  of  horrid  oaths,  while 
Ganymede  and  Mimi  sprang  from  under  the  table, 
showing  their  gums.  The  Princess's  beasts  were  as 
malicious  as  her  Excellency  herself. 

"And  the  interview?"  questioned  the  Duchessa 
da  Monte  Chiaro,  nodding  a  mighty  turban  toward 
Eugenio. 

"The  Queen  is  a  sweet  lady,"  Francesca  was  be- 
ginning, when,  with  a  brusque  gesture,  the  Colibri 
suppressed  her. 

The  unhappy  child  was  never  allowed  to  get  a 
word  in  edgewise. 

"You,  Fortunata,  tell  us!"  commanded  her  Ex- 
cellency. 

"What  would  you  say,  Zia,"  she  asked,  unclasp- 
ing her  cloak,  "were  I  to  tell  you  that  I  bring  you 
five  thousand  lire  more  a  year?  Would  you  thank 
me?     Would  you  lend  me  enough  to  pay  my  bills?" 

The  Princess  was  on  her  guard.  "I  should  say  it 
was  my  due.    You  owe  me  more  than  you  can  ever 

78 


FORTUNATA 

pay — a  debt  of  gratitude.  All  your  life — ^how  many 
years  is  it  ?  Well,  no,  we  won't  count — I  have  given 
you  food  and  shelter,  advice,  interest,  love,  such  as 
angels  only  feel  for  each  other." 

"Zia,"  said  Fortunata,  "the  gracious  Queen  told 
me  that  after  all  the  time  you  served  her,  it  was 
not  right  that  your  pension  should  be  discontinued. 
She  begged  you  to  accept  five  thousand  lire  from 
her  a  year.  Frankly,  Zia,  I  was  tactful  this  after- 
noon— your  good  luck  is  due  to  me,  and  the  least 
you  can  do  is  to  lend  me  the  money.  Look  at  these 
shoes,  look  at  these  gloves,  look  at  this  coat — they 
are  not  mine;  I  wear  them  at  my  peril.  And  see, 
the  shoes  are  half  worn  out."  And  with  a  farewell 
glance  that  enveloped  her  audience,  the  young  girl 
trailed  off  in  her  clinging  dress. 

As  Fortunata  mounted  the  stairs,  her  attention 
was  caught  by  a  line  of  light  radiating  from  under 
Antonia's  door.  She  concluded  that  the  Marchesa 
was  dressing  for  dinner. 

"Aye  chiquita!"  sang  Antonia,  in  her  vibrant 
contralto.  Her  voice  floated  out  onto  the  landing, 
repeating  the  melancholy  love-song  over  and  over. 
Fort^mata  knocked .  The  plaint  ceased .  ' '  A vanti ! ' ' 
cried  the  Marchesa.  Between  the  four  candles  of 
her  bureau  Antonia  was  seated,  enveloped  in  a 
wine-colored  dressing-gown.  Her  hair  fell  over  her 
shoulders,  like  the  cloak  of  the  Lady  Godiva.  With 
a  motion  of  her  hand,  she  dismissed  the  servant. 

"Don  Luigi  and  my  husband  have  not  returned, 
Fortunata?" 

"No,  Antonia." 

And  sitting  on  the  window-sill,  drawing  back  into 

79 


FORTUNATA 

the  dim  recesses  of  the  curtains,  the  young  girl 
began  to  tell  of  the  afternoon,  of  its  adventures,  its 
triumphs.  Curiously  enough  there  was  sympathy 
between  these  two  women.  Their  minds  were  op- 
posed; their  hearts  were  different;  yet  Fortunata 
felt  more  affection  for  this  half-sister  than  for  any 
one  else  on  earth. 

"Antonia,"  Fortunata  was  saying,  "as  I  sat  there 
to-day,  listening  to  the  Queen,  I  kept  thinking  of 
all  the  money  I  owed,  of  all  the  lies  I've  got  to  tell, 
and  the  borrowing  I've  got  to  do,  and  the  cheating, 
and  the  haggling  before  I  get  free.  I  kept  thinking 
of  the  way  we  live  here  at  home — barking  at  each 
other  all  the  time  and  calling  names,  and  I  thought 
of  something  else,  too;  you  know  what  I  mean — I 
wondered  if  she  knew.  I  felt  ashamed.  I  felt  al- 
most as  though  I  were  developing  a  conscience." 

The  Marchesa  had  turned  toward  her  sister,  and 
was  listening  intently;  her  torrent  of  hair  sweeping 
down  on  either  shoulder.  The  noble  folds  of  her 
dress  set  off  her  strange,  melancholy  beauty,  the 
beauty  that  haunts  the  Grecian  friezes.  Fortimata's 
voice,  young,  earnest,  reverberated  in  the  sparsely 
furnished  room.  "Yes,  I  felt  sick;  I  thought  for 
the  first  time  it  must  be  pleasant  to  lead  a  decent 
life." 

After  a  pause,  "What  you  say  is  beautiful,"  ob- 
served the  Marchesa,  with  the  ponderous  simplicity 
peculiar  to  her. 

"Oh,  my  sister!"  Fortunata  cried,  emboldened; 
"you  give  me  the  courage  to  ask  you  something  I 
never  dared  before.  I  beg  you,  in  the  name  of  the 
Madonna,  for  your  own  good  name,  I  beseech  you 

80 


FORTUNATA 

for  me,  for  all  of  us,  send  Luigi  Dacampagna  back 
to  Florence — send  him  away!  Since  he  came  he 
has  brought  us  only  evil." 

The  Marchesa  gave  a  sort  of  strangling  cry,  and 
started  to  her  feet.  A  trembling  seized  her,  and 
she  shut  her  eyes  as  though  divining  the  presence  of 
some  hideous  phantom,  and  opening  them  suddenly 
big  and  burning  on  Fortunata.  "Ah,  if  you  could 
hear  what  people  say  of  you — they  speak  your 
name,  Fortunata  Rivallo,  then  they  laugh.  'That 
flirt!'  they  say;  'she  engages  herself  to  men  she 
never  means  to  marry.  You  may  kiss  her  for  the 
asking.'  For  shame!  For  shame!  And  you  a 
young  girl!" 

Fortunata  had  risen.  "That  is  not  the  same 
thing,"  she  said,  coldly. 

"True!"  cried  the  Marchesa;  "too  true!  A  mar- 
ried woman  is  free,  while  with  a  young  girl  it  is 
different." 

"A  difference  there  is,  Antonia."  Fortunata's 
heart  was  thumping  against  her  ribs.  "I  am 
ashamed  of  nothing.     Can  you  say  the  same?" 

The  Marchesa  turned  pale,  as  though  she  had 
been  struck  a  mortal  blow.  She  fell  back  against 
the  window-frame,  her  hair  enveloping  her  like  a 
shawl. 

"Forgive  me!"  cried  Fortunata.  "I — what  is 
that?" 

From  below  came  the  sound  of  a  brawl,  a  sten- 
torian voice  shouted,  "Sangue  di  Dio!  Take  this! 
and  you  take  that!"  and  the  cracking  of  blows. 

Fortunata  ran  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  She 
came  face  to  face  with  Luigi,  who  was  springing  up 
6  8i 


FORTUNATA 

the  steps  three  at  a  time.  At  sight  of  her  he  took 
off  his  hat  and  made  a  bow — a  bundle  of  lilacs  under 
his  arm. 

"It  is  nothing!  At  the  races  Guido  lost.  He  has 
drunk  barolo.  He  would  have  fought  the  Duchessa 
da  Monte  Chiaro's  man  but  for  me.     Ecco!" 

On  hearing  Luigi's  voice,  Antonia  sprang  to  him 
and  caught  him  by  the  hand.  "Do  you  see  her?" 
she  asked,  pointing  to  Fortunata. 

"Yes,  yes!"  he  answered,  soothingly.  While  sup- 
porting the  Marchesa  with  one  arm,  he  looked  right 
and  left  for  a  spot  to  put  down  his  burden  of  flowers. 

"Ah,  Luigi!"  cried  Antonia,  draping  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  "ought  a  young  girl  to  nourish 
unkind  thoughts,  wicked  suspicions?  Should  she 
accuse,  rebuke  her  sister?" 

Fortunata  lost  all  patience.  "A  young  girl  can't 
do  this!  A  young  girl  can't  do  that!  My  life  long 
that's  been  drummed  into  me.  Married  or  not,  I'm 
a  human  being!" 

"I  can't  conceive  the  reason,"  declared  the  Colibri, 
who  by  means  of  Eugenio's  shoulder,  the  banister, 
and  her  own  gouty  hands,  was  hoisting  herself  up 
the  stairs.  "I  can't  conceive  why  it  is  that  boots 
figure  so  in  intoxication.  Drunken  people  are  so 
obsessed  with  their  boots.  They  either  want  to  take 
them  off  or  else  to  go  to  bed  in  them.  Guido  has 
just—" 

"Ah,  Principessa!"  exclaimed  Antonia,  address- 
ing the  Colibri  over  Luigi's  shoulder,  "ought  a  yoimg 
girl  to  suspect  evil,  even  to  know  what  evil  is?" 

"Well,  it  depends,"  the  Princess  answered,  judi- 
ciously, "on  where  a  young  girl  is  brought  up." 

82 


FORTUNATA 

"Luigi!"  murmured  the  Marchesa.  Laying  her 
palms  on  either  side  of  his  face,  she  held  him  at 
arm's-length,  looking  profoundly  into  his  eyes. 
"Ho  trovato! — she  is  jealous.  Fortunata  is  jealous 
of  such  happiness  as  ours;  the  angels  themselves 
would  be  envious." 

" '  She  gave  me  a  glance,  a  side-glance. 
And  I  bum,  I  perish  like  a  flame,' " 

shouted  Guido,  and  he  was  heard  tumbling  his  way 
up-stairs. 

The  tension  in  the  air,  the  atmosphere  of  emotional 
storm,  the  drimken  voice  that  woke  the  echoes,  all 
went  to  the  Princess's  head  like  wine.  She  wagged 
her  cane  at  Fortunata. 

"This  is  it,  Antonia.  Fortunata  is  afraid  that 
you  will  mar  her  chances.  You'll  bring  the  name 
of  Rivallo  to  shame,  and  she'll  be  penniless  and  ob- 
scure, and  an  old  maid."  And  she  proceeded  to 
laugh  in  a  highly  uncanny  fashion,  flapping  her 
arms  and  screeching  like  a  crow. 


CHAPTER  X 

**  \^7H0  is  the  nice  young  man,  Fortunata,  I  some- 
VV  times  get  a  sight  of  around  the  palace?" 
queried  Miss  Case  one  morning. 

The   girls   were   in    Fortunata' s   bedroom.     The 
Contessina   looked   intently   into   the   glass   while 
Hortense  waved  her  cloudy  hair.     She  was  gifted 
with  submissive  hair,   silky  and  unusually  thick. 
Nevertheless,  in  pursuit  of  fashion,  she  wreathed 
her  head  with  the  coronet  braid,  the  puff,  all  the 
latest  vagaries.     Her  toilet-table  was  worthy  of  a 
worn-out  belle,  and  these  wisps  and  strands  and 
switches  suggested  the  trophies  of  a  scalping  Indian. 
"Narrow,  pale,  dressy?"  asked  Fortunata. 
"Yes,  a  young  fellow  with  lots  of  hair." 
"And  a  pointed  chin?     He's  my  brother." 
"The  Conte!    Let  me  meet  him  some  day,  will 
you,  Fortunata?" 

"He  would  be  delighted,  I  know,"  said  Fortu- 
nata— "a  little  closer  to  the  temple,  Hortense.  Are 
you  going  to  the  Monte  Chiaro's  to-night?" 

"Not  if  I  know  it.  It's  one  of  her  intellectual 
jamborees." 

"A  regular  literary  orgy,"  admitted  Fortunata. 
"The  Colibri  says  to  have  no  reserve  in  your  mind, 
to  go  on  intellectual  sprees,  and  lay  your  soul  bare 
is  just  as  improper  as  any  other  kind  of  debauch — " 

84 


FORTUNATA 

"The  Monte  Chiaro  will  have  the  place  crushed 
full  of  literary  lights." 

"Eugenio  and  I  will  be  there." 

"Then  you'll  find  me  there,  too,"  averred  Miss  Case. 

"Genius  is  a  terrible  malady,  Fortunata,"  said 
Eugenio  that  night,  as  he  and  his  sister  rolled  up 
the  via  Vittorio  Emanuele  in  the  carriage  of  the 
Princess.  "Ah,"  he  continued,  tragically,  "I  have 
the  obsession,  the  unrest,  all  the  divine  disquietude!" 

"Si,  Caro  mio.     Here  we  are." 

An  oblong  of  light  faced  them,  and  the  Monte 
Chiaro's  majordomo  was  defined  in  its  midst.  The 
stream  of  guests  branched  off,  the  men  to  the  left, 
the  women  to  the  right,  and  they  shouted  to  each 
other  as  they  shed  their  coats  and  wraps,  some 
joking,  some  complimenting,  others — a  husband  and 
wife  generally — quarrelling,  but  not  ungraciously. 
* '  Always  late !  What  stupidity ! ' '  half -reproachfully , 
half -caressingly,  after  the  fashion  of  the  South. 

An  atmosphere  of  discontent  prevailed  among  the 
guests;  they  appeared  disgruntled,  like  children 
who,  on  coming  to  a  party,  regret  being  there.  In- 
deed, it  was  the  Monte  Chiaro's  night  for  entertain- 
ing the  litterati,  playwrights,  and  aesthetes.  Ob- 
scure subjects  were  discussed — Hamlet,  for  instance, 
and  the  smile  of  La  Giaconda.  The  world  and  art 
co-mingled.  Society  swept  into  the  reception-hall 
looking  self-sufficient,  sleek,  well-groomed,  and  well- 
fed,  while  the  students  sidled  in  afterward,  as  though 
conscious  of  their  unkempt  heads,  their  translucent 
faces,  and  of  the  something  dowdy  and  pathetic 
which  the  ever  restless  brain  gives  to  the  body 

85 


FORTUNATA 

Miss  Case  was  entertaining  a  group  who  followed 
her  every  word  with  appropriate  gestures.  She  was 
speaking  English,  and  in  the  voice  of  a  graphophone. 
As  Fortunata  and  Eugenio  passed  Pearl  'spied  them, 
and  came  after  with  that  vigor  of  purpose  peculiar 
to  the  American. 

"Hello,  cutey!" 

"Good -evening,  Signorina.  You  are  charming! 
Pearl,  this  is  my  brother." 

Miss  Case  wrenched  Eugenio' s  hand;  he  made 
her  a  deep  bow  expressive  of  melancholy,  of  dis- 
approbation, and  then  turned  away.  Pearl's  eyes, 
pale  as  flawed  jewels,  ate  into  his  back. 

"I  can't  understand,"  ventured  Eugenio,  in  a 
voice  of  maidenly  reserve,  "the  attraction  I  possess 
for  women  over  six  feet.  Female  grenadiers  are 
drawn  to  me;  bones  and  sinews  adore  me;  and  for 
a  lantern  jaw  I  prove  irresistible."  Therewith  he 
flicked  some  powder  off  his  sleeve,  with  a  smile  sar- 
castic yet  coy. 

The  dawn  was  already  in  the  streets,  faint  and 
chilly,  but  the  Monte  Chiaro  still  kept  calling  for 
recitations,  for  songs.  By  this  time  the  audience 
was  fallen  into  a  state  of  coma;  but  the  performers 
had  worked  themselves  into  a  histrionic  frenzy. 

"Recite  us  something  of  yours,  Conte!"  cried  the 
Monte  Chiaro,  addressing  Eugenio,  in  her  brazen, 
compelling  voice. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  transfigured.  Pro- 
testing, he  shrugged  his  inability,  his  lack  of  time 
for  composition,  the  undue  length  of  his  finer  poems. 
*  *  Aye,  Madonna !  Duchessa !"  and  he  gesticulated  with 
all  the  violence  of  the  artist  and  of  the  Southerner. 

86 


FORTUNATA 

'"Curfew  shall  not' — go  it!"  called  Miss  Case,  as 
though  leading  off  a  cheer. 

The  audience  seconded  her,  clapping  limply. 

The  young  man  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  group. 
He  had  lost  his  foppish  airs;  his  figure  seemed  to 
expand;  his  eyes  lightened  and  radiated  with  that 
divine  fire  that  can  transfigure  a  face.  He  made  no 
gestures,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  devoid  of  conscious 
expression. 

The  poem,  roughly  translated,  was  like  this: 

"THE  SIREN 

"He  stood  beside  the  waters, 

The  phosphorescent  waters, 

The  waves  like  huge  disporters 

Were  tumbling  in  the  sea. 

When  in  the  starry  stillness, 

The  moonless  fragrant  ch illness, 
The  pale  and  slim  Undine  rose  effulgent  from  the  sea. 

She  was  a  merman's  daughter, 

The  pride  of  all  the  water. 
The  prettiest  and  wickedest  that  ever  swam  the  sea. 

Her  hair  was  green  as  sorrel, 

And  her  breasts  were  tipped  with  coral, 
Hers  was  the  mystic  beauty  of  the  strange  malignant  sea — 

She  put  her  arms  around  him, 

And  in  her  hair  she  wound  him, 

And  her  young  strength  enwound  him, 

Beside  the  salty  sea. 

The  wild  clouds  overswept  them 

And  the  hours  overslept  them 
And  the  great  sun  came  riding  out  from  the  glorious  sea. 

Then  siren  most  insidious, 

False,  fickle,  and  perfidious, 
She  turned  her  shoulder  on  him  and  sprang  into  the  sea. 

She  let  herself  be  courted 

By  mermen  and  disported 

87 


FORTUNATA 

And  rode  her  jolly  dolphins  way  out  into  the  sea- 
Poisonous,  fatal  fusion, 
And  her  kiss  was  a  delusion, 
Wraith,  spirit,  and  illusion. 
She  came  not  to  the  shore — 
And  such  is  siren's  fashion 
To  rent  and  haunt  by  passion, 
To  torment  beyond  compassion 
Sojourners  on  the  shore" — 

Eugenio  ended,  flinging  out  his  arms,  throwing 
back  his  head.  The  applause  came,  sudden  and 
sharp,  like  a  reverberation  of  musketry,  and  the 
young  man  sat  down. 

"I  like  that,"  said  Fortunata,  proud  of  her 
brother. 

**E  multo  musicale!"  murmured  the  guests,  shak- 
ing off  their  lethargy,  and  the  party  broke  up. 

The  dawn  was  creeping  through  the  streets  as 
brother  and  sister  drove  home.  Eugenio  kept  say- 
ing, "I  know  I  shall  ultimately  be  famous!"  Fort- 
unata's  self-confidence,  on  the  contrary,  seemed 
ebbing  away.  She  was  overcome  with  a  sudden 
melancholy,  a  sense  of  incompetence,  of  fatality. 

Almost  imperceptibly  the  winter  became  the 
spring.  Nature  loves  the  South  and  tries  to  spare 
Italy  all  the  rude  inclemencies.  In  the  Colibri's 
gardens  the  perfume  of  the  lilac  weighted  the  air. 
Miss  Case  haunted  the  Palazzo.  She  and  Fortunata, 
arm  in  arm,  threaded  the  box  hedges.  Warily  Pearl 
looked  out  under  her  pompadour  for  Eugenio,  and 
when  they  met  she  was  all  smiles,  all  genial  hand- 
gripping,  while  he  looked  at  her  feet  and  turned  the 
color  of  a  rose. 

88 


FORTUNATA 

"He's  a  perfect  hymn-book,  that  brother  of  yours," 
she  announced,  one  evening.  "Will  you  see  me  to 
the  door,  Conte?"  she  begged,  with  a  languishing 
look. 

"He  has  a  sore  throat.  Pearl,"  said  Fortunata, 
"and  can't  stand  a  draught." 

"I'll  lend  him  my  marabout,"  laughed  Miss  Case; 
and  she  took  off  her  boa  and  lassoed  Eugenio. 

He  came  back  looking  very  weak  and  sad. 

"My  poor  brother,  she'll  marry  you  yet!"  cried 
Fortunata.     "I  see  it  in  her  eyes!" 

Eugenio  looked  toward  the  glass.  * ' '  What  a  wom- 
an wants,'  you  know." 

"Come,  you  mustn't  give  way  like  this — I  will 
help  you." 

Fortunata  always  kept  her  word. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  April ;  Miss  Case  had  come 
to  tea.  The  table  was  set  in  the  garden,  in  the  shade 
and  fragrance  of  the  box.  The  amount  of  food  of- 
fered was  discreet,  after  the  Continental  fashion — 
a  few  morsels  of  bread-and-butter,  a  bit  or  two  of 
cake.  The  air  was  sweet  and  heavy,  like  incense. 
The  church  bells  rang  lazily  in  the  heat.  Miss 
Case's  glance  ran  up  and  down  Fortunata,  took  in 
her  dress,  her  hair,  her  quaint,  faunish  face. 

Pearl  had  a  disconcerting  pair  of  eyes.  They 
met  the  look  of  others  with  that  brutal  sizing-up 
stare,  to  be  caught  sometimes  in  a  person  when 
looking  at  the  back  of  an  enemy. 

"It's  hot  as  the  deuce!"  she  said;  and  she  shot  a 
gimlet  glance  right  and  left. 

She  is  looking  for  Eugenio,  thought  Fortunata; 
and  the  Contessina  cast  down  her  eyes  and  served 


FORTUNATA 

the  tea  with  an  air  as  gentle  and  modest  as  a  seraph. 
Doubtfully  the  girls  smiled  at  each  other  across  the 
table,  with  that  antagonism  always  existing  between 
the  same  ambition,  the  same  pretence  to  beauty 
and  wit.  They  fell  to  talking,  each  trying  secretly 
to  wound.  Miss  Case  brought  the  conversation 
round  where  she  wished  it. 

"There's  something  nice  about  that  brother  of 
yours,"  she  said,  in  her  jocose  voice, 

"Poor  boy!"  murmured  Fortunata.  "He  has 
been  hopelessly  in  love  for  the  last  few  years  with 
an  English  girl  whom  he  knew  at  Oxford — a  small, 
black-haired  person,  not  pretty  I  should  judge  from 
her  photograph.  He  likes  that  type;  his  taste  is  so 
poor  that  his  attentions  could  flatter  no  one." 

Miss  Case  was  arrested.  The  bread-and-butter 
stopped  half-way  to  her  mouth. 

"A  little  more  tea,  dear  Pearl?"  warbled  Fortu- 
nata, and,  lowering  her  voice,  she  bent  across  the 
table.  "The  Comte  de  Brillac  was  here  an  hour 
ago.  He  confided  to  me  something — but  you  can 
guess  what  it  was." 

"Go  ahead— tell  me." 

"Oh,  a  woman  always  knows,"  assured  Fortunata, 
in  her  light,  musical  voice,  which  was,  nevertheless, 
always  a  little  hoarse,  like  a  flute  with  a  sore  throat. 
"Guess,  Pearl." 

"I  don't  know — cross  my  heart." 

"*Ah,  that  divine  woman!'  he  told  me,  meaning 
you.  *I  adore  her!'"  And  Fortunata,  twirling  an 
imaginary  mustache,  hand  on  heart,  gave  an  imita- 
tion of  the  Frenchman's  manner. 

Pearl  laughed,  stimulated  by  amusement  and  vanity. 

90 


FORTUNATA 

She  left  without  exploring  the  garden  paths,  or 
once  asking  after  Eugenic.  It  was  the  old  trick 
played  on  Benedict  and  Beatrice;  but  it  worked  at 
first  to  a  miracle, 

"What  has,  then,  the  Mademoiselle  Case?"  de 
Brillac  questioned  of  Fortunata  at  one  of  the  Em- 
bassies. "Her  eyes  pursue  me  like  those  of  an 
ogress." 

"She  loves  you,"  said  Fortunata.  "She  told  me 
so. 

He  was  flattered.  "She  is  ravishing,"  he  ad- 
mitted. 

Yes,  at  first,  it  worked  like  a  charm;  but  some- 
how the  plot  leaked  out.  In  a  moment  of  con- 
fidence did  each,  perhaps,  tell  the  other,  or  did 
Pearl's  instinct  flare  the  trick?  There  was  a  quar- 
rel, love  was  at  an  end,  and  from  that  day  Miss  Case 
turned  her  back  on  the  Contessina,  snorted  when 
Fortunata  was  within  hearing,  and  talked  of  a  girl 
she  knew  who  had  brass  enough  to  sink  a  ship. 

In  later  years,  when  the  Wheel  of  Fortune  went 
over  the  Contessina,  when  her  old  sins  cropped  up, 
bills  came  down  on  her,  her  lies  swamped  her,  when 
the  world  muffled  its  voice  and  talked  of  the  "little 
Rivallo,  poor  child,"  the  American,  too,  joined  in 
and  pitied.  She  lowered  her  lids  over  her  pale, 
treacherous  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MEANWHILE,  Luigi  and  Antonia  went  on  lov- 
ing and  despising  and  making  each  other 
wretched,  after  the  fashion  of  two  natures  as  op- 
posed as  the  antipodes,  yet  which,  drawn  and  held 
by  desire,  mutually  misunderstand,  mutually  tor- 
ture each  other.  This  passion  was  ill-fated  from  the 
first,  marred  by  jealousy,  suspicions,  quarrels  more 
degrading  than  the  brawls  of  a  tenement,  relapses 
to  the  old  delicious  ways,  separations,  long  days 
passed  thinking  of  each  other  with  a  kind  of  aching 
tenderness.  The  Marchesa  knew  her  lover  for  what 
he  was — shallow,  inconstant — and  as  for  Luigi,  he 
was  a  martyr  to  her  moods.  Monday  she  was  more 
tender  and  melting  than  Juliet;  Tuesday  more  im- 
approachable  than  Diana;  Wednesday  she  was  the 
faithful  friend,  the  sympathizing  sister;  Thursday 
an  ascetic,  a  woman  dead  to  the  world — her  jealousy 
only  was  constant. 

"I  cannot  look  my  husband  in  the  eyes!"  was  her 
refrain.  "I  owe  him  everything,  even  to  the  bread 
I  eat" — and,  she  might  have  added,  even  to  the 
maintenance  of  her  lover.  "If  you  loved  me, 
Luigi,"  she  told  him,  "we  would  go  together  to  a 
country  far  off,  where  no  one  could  ever  find  us 
again.     We  would  live  for  each  other." 

The  prospect  of  ending  his  days  amid  the  stem 

92 


FORTUNATA 

wonders  of  nature,  in  the  company  of  a  jealous 
woman  and  nasty  savages,  was  most  distasteful  to 
the  frivolous  Luigi.  The  Marchesa  was  a  victim  to 
presentiments  and  premonitions  of  ill,  dreadful 
dreams,  warnings  for  the  future.  "Unless  we  part," 
she  would  say,  "we  are  lost."  With  great  sim- 
plicity, much  fervor,  and  many  tears,  she  protested 
that  her  desire  now  was  to  retire  to  a  convent,  and 
she  besought  her  lover  to  enter  a  monastery.  The 
idea  of  Luigi  in  a  saintly  brotherhood,  having  suf- 
fered the  tonsure,  his  dapper  waist  girt  with  the 
cord  of  obedience,  poverty,  and  chastity,  was  sadly 
incongruous. 

Like  a  sleuth-hound  she  tracked  him.  "Why  did 
you  glance  at  Fortunata  as  you  did?"  she  would 
say,  turning  pale  and  beginning  to  tremble.  He 
protested:  "Antonia,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
Davvero!"  And,  indeed,  Luigi  could  no  more  help 
giving  a  woman  a  kind  look  than  he  could  avoid  the 
ripple  in  his  hair. 

At  dinner  the  Marchesa  entertained  the  family 
with  a  dissertation  on  suicide  and  the  most  efficacious 
mode  of  self-destruction,  whether  by  water,  fire,  or 
steel.  Eugenio  was  all  for  laudanum,  and  Fortunata 
for  chloral.  "The  surest  is  rat-poison,"  yelled  the 
Princess;    "and  take  some  yourself,  Antonia." 

In  a  fit  of  jealousy  Antonia  had  sent  Luigi  away, 
and  for  many  a  day  he  was  absent  from  Rome. 
That  night  the  Marchesa  did  not  close  her  eyes,  and 
the  servants  said  that  they  heard  her  pacing  the 
floor,  crying  and  praying,  into  the  dawn.  Next 
morning  she  was  punctual  at  lunch,  a  rare  occur- 
rence with  her — a  proof  that  she  had  entered  upon 

93 


FORTUNATA 

the  strenuous  life.  She  wore  a  severe  habit  of  black, 
her  hair  was  modestly  dressed,  her  face-powder  and 
the  rouge  of  her  lips  had  been  forgotten. 

Like  the  Magdalen,  the  Marchesa  turned  to  her 
God.  A  daughter  of  sorrow  she  came  to  the  church. 
But  she  no  longer  knew  her  former  ecstasies,  her 
raptures  of  faith.  Before  the  month  was  over,  Don 
Luigi  was  reinstated  in  the  palace.  As  for  Don 
Luigi,  he  had  always  held  that  one  woman  is  worth 
another,  provided  she  be  young  and  beautiful,  and 
love  with  all  the  strength  of  her  senses.  Yet  now 
he  found,  and  with  a  kind  of  terror,  that  other  kisses 
were  not  to  him  the  same — ^he  was  tied  body  and 
soul  to  this  stormy,  haggard  siren.  There  were 
drawbacks.  With  Antonia  love  must  be  eternally 
protested.     Devotion  must  be  at  high-water  mark. 

To  Luigi,  after  the  tempestuous  Antonia,  Fortu- 
nata  was  restful  and  refreshing.  He  thought  her 
neatly  proportioned,  not  only  in  body,  but  in  senti- 
ments— her  gestures,  her  little  ways  attracted  him. 
Her  utter  indifference,  her  unapologetic  self-ab- 
straction, held  for  him  a  poignant  charm.  Though 
the  property  of  another  she  took  no  interest  in  him; 
she  found  him  common,  flighty,  and  a  home- wrecker 
by  profession.  Nevertheless,  she  could  not  forbear 
to  play  for  an  audience,  and  would  have  shown  off 
before  a  setting  hen. 

One  morning,  noisy  with  chimes  and  church  bells, 
Luigi  stood  at  his  window,  when  among  the  box 
hedges  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Fortunata's  slim 
silhouette.  Her  head  was  averted.  Luigi  was  seized 
with  an  obstinate  desire  to  see  her  face.  He  left  his 
room  and  met  her  at  one  of  the  turnings  of  the  path. 

94 


FORTUNATA 

"Good-morning,  Fortunata." 

"Good-morning,  Luigi." 

"More  charming  than  ever,  were  that  possible, 
Signorina.     You  slept  well?" 

She  thanked  him,  "Yes,"  and  hoped  he  had  done 
likewise. 

He  joined  her,  and  for  a  time  they  walked  on  in 
silence.     He  had  a  thought: 

"What  a  beautiful  day." 

She  found  it  so,  too;  and  to  punctuate  she  rolled 
up  her  coffee-colored  eyes. 

"Santa  Maria,  you  are  lovely  that  way.  Look 
up  again." 

Fortunata,  always  obliging,  rolled  up  her  eyes  and 
then  down  again  with  entire  composure. 

"No,  I  have  never  seen  a  woman  with  your  eyes. 
I  have  often  thought  so — you'll  forgive  me  if  this 
doesn't  please  you — " 

For  the  first  time  during  their  talk  she  looked  at 
him  directly,  though  it  was  only  a  fugitive  glance, 
and  through  her  eyelashes. 

"Will  you  marry  me?" 

He  was  as  surprised  as  she,  and  they  came  to  a 
standstill  in  the  middle  of  a  step.  A  proposal  in 
Italy  is  merely  a  compliment — the  man  proves  he 
dares  a  risk.  Fortunata  had  encouraged  Luigi  with 
all  her  powers,  and  no  one  was  more  conscious  than 
she  herself  of  the  subtle  methods  employed.  Never- 
theless, she  was  indignant  at  this  transference  of 
homage  from  sister  to  sister — this  infidelity  to  a 
liaison,  world-accepted  and  respected  as  a  family 
tie.  She  did  not  answer.  The  bells'  hurried  clap- 
pers clanged  and  hammered. 

95 


FORTUNATA 

"I  am  sorry;  I  did  not  mean  to  overhear!"  And 
from  the  hedge  emerged  a  round  and  guilty  face, 
none  other  than  Francesca's.  "I  have  been  pluck- 
ing flowers,"  cried  the  simple  creature,  and  she  held 
up  four  dried  dandelions. 

"Come  over  the  hedge,"  said  Fortunata,  and 
when  Francesca  had  scrambled  through,  the  Con- 
tessina  draped  her  arm  about  her  sister's  neck  and 
turned  from  Luigi  as  from  a  contaminating  presence. 

Later  Fortunata  said  to  the  perturbed  Francesca: 

"Sister,  let  me  feel  your  head." 

"But  why?" 

"To  find  out  if  you  have  the  secretive  bump." 

"What's  that?" 

"The  bump  that  keeps  secrets." 

"Well,  feel." 

"You  have,  you  have!  Most  markedly!  And 
now  promise  me  never  to  breathe  to  a  living  soul 
what  you  heard  this  morning." 

And  Francesca  promised,  fixing  on  Fortunata  eyes 
sincere,  but  as  round  and  inexpressive  as  marbles. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SEPTEMBER  was  come  again,  and  the  air  was 
damp,  fimereal,  inspiring  a  foreboding,  a  nos- 
talgia for  the  summer  and  the  heat.  The  trees 
of  the  Palazzo  garden,  overtaken  in  their  summer 
finery,  shook  off  their  rustic  splendor. 

For  all  her  suitors,  for  all  her  brilliant  success, 
three  seasons  had  seen  the  Contessina.  She  was 
twenty-two  years  old,  no  juvenile  age  in  Italy, 
where  girls  marry  young,  and  yet  she  was  still  the 
Signorina  Rivallo.  She  counted  on  her  marriage, 
she  trusted  to  it,  she  built  on  it.  It  should  make 
her  influential,  envied,  free  to  spend  and,  in  the 
Italian  spirit,  to  love  whom  she  chose.  She  looked 
far  and  near,  still  the  husband  answering  all  the 
requirements  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  Con- 
tessina had  been  brought  up  to  believe  that  the 
object  of  a  woman's  life  is  to  marry  well.  She  had 
no  other  ambition.  Her  aim  was  to  find  a  husband 
wealthy,  well  bom,  influential,  if  possible.  Her 
taste  was  easily  jarred.  He  must  have  no  boring 
faults,  none  of  the  ways  of  the  boor  or  of  the  pro- 
fessor. She  would  have  liked  him  young,  preferably 
handsome. 

She  was  only  twenty-two,  yet  at  moments  she  felt 
old,  fagged,  disheartened.  She  feared  to  end  on 
the  matrimonial  bargain  -  counter.  As  years  went 
7  97 


FORTUNATA 

by,  and  Fortunata  became  neither  a  princess  nor  a 
multimillionairess,  she  began  to  fall  in  her  aunt's 
esteem.  Never  was  there  such  a  toady  to  success 
as  the  Mentor.  Although  at  a  ball  Fortunata  was 
more  popular  than  ever,  yet  through  vanity  her 
reputation  had  suffered.  She  was  said  to  be  quick 
to  jilt,  quicker  to  flirt,  and  at  her  name  old  ladies 
wagged  their  heads.  Her  style,  the  chaperones  de- 
clared, was  not  what  it  should  be.  Not  that  they 
called  her  vulgar,  loud,  or  fast.  It  was  her  exag- 
gerated elegance  they  found  fault  with. 

Barely  of  medium  height  and  of  an  exaggerated 
slendemess,  yet  she  had  nothing  of  that  fragility 
of  aspect  peculiar  to  small  women.  Her  rounded 
form  did  not  show  a  bone;  her  throat  was  like  a 
small  column;  her  bust  curved  out  nobly;  her  every 
gesture  spoke  vitality;  her  waist  was  like  a  reed; 
her  hips  slipped  down  to  nothingness.  She  was  as 
lithe  and  subtle  as  a  viper.  She  might  have  danced 
a  saraband  and  rapped  her  blond  head  on  the  floor. 
The  immature  charm  of  some  shy  woodland  creature 
appealed  in  Fortunata.  The  pale,  light-brown  hair 
framed  a  low,  broad  brow;  the  cheek-bones,  some- 
what marked,  dwindled  into  a  very  pointed  chin. 
The  skin  was  of  an  effulgent  pallor.  The  nose,  too 
short,  was  only  redeemed  by  an  irresistible  mouth 
full  of  curves  and  ripples,  and  at  the  comers  un- 
twisting like  a  bow.  But  it  was  in  her  eyes,  in 
laughter  sly  and  animal,  in  repose  full  of  a  slumber- 
ous fire,  that  lay  the  singular  allurement  of  this 
face,  although  they  were  neither  large  nor  beautiful. 
Deep-set  and  far  apart,  under  straight  brows,  their 
exaggerated  pupils  held  the  blackness  of  night.    So 

98 


FORTUNATA 

compelling  was  their  glance,  that  when  she  lowered 
her  lids,  and  her  long  lashes  swept  her  cheeks,  her 
face  assumed  a  bare,  one  might  almost  say  a  naked, 
aspect. 

Late  one  afternoon  Fortunata,  having  parted  with 
one  of  her  admirers  in  the  dark  hall,  returned  to  the 
sola.  She  was  smiling  to  herself  and  pinning  back 
a  strand  of  hair.  The  room  was  no  longer  empty. 
Guido  paced  forward  and  back,  with  his  falsely 
military  air.  In  the  dusk  his  waistcoat  made  a 
white  blotch.  He  was  growing  stout,  but  after  an 
indefinite  fashion — one  might  say  that  he  had  a  low 
chest,  rather  than  that  he  had  a  stomach.  Fortu- 
nata stood  at  the  window,  still  with  her  reminiscent 
smile,     Dacampagna  turned  on  her. 

"Your  visitor  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  get  away," 

From  imder  the  shadow  of  her  hair  she  glanced 
at  him. 

"No?"  A  thought  struck  her  and  she  threw 
back  her  head  and  laughed, 

"Always  a  new  dress!"  he  said;  and  under  the 
pretence  of  feeling  the  material,  he  passed  his  hand 
along  her  sleeve.  He  stood  close  to  Fortunata, 
looking  down  at  her.  The  carnation  in  his  button- 
hole brushed  against  her  cheek.  "How  can  you 
afford  them?" 

"Heigh-ho,  I  can't!"  Her  voice  was  very  young. 
"San  Angelo  is  staring  me  in  the  face."  Instantly 
she  regretted  that  she  had  spoken,  and  was  over- 
taken with  a  sort  of  shame, 

"If  you  want  money,  why  don't  you  come  to  me ?" 

"You?"  With  surprise  she  blushed  in  a  manner 
that  became  her. 

99 


FORTUNATA 

"How  much  is  it?"  He  stood  straddle-legged, 
all  importance  and  condescension. 

She  hesitated,  her  head  averted,  her  short  profile 
defined  against  the  unshuttered  window.  She  was 
tempted  to  modify  the  sum,  to  make  a  half -ad- 
mission— yet  why,  after  all,  tell  an  unnecessary  lie  ? 

"Ten  thousand,  eight  hundred  lire!" 

He  whistled  and  drew  back  from  her,  scanning 
her  figure.  From  his  pocket  he  took  a  check-book, 
and,  turning  his  back,  sat  down  at  the  table.  His 
arm  moved  as  though  he  were  writing.  She  con- 
tinued to  look  out  of  the  window  and  faltered  like 
a  child  caught  in  error. 

"I  lie  awake  at  night  trying  out  of  nothing  to 
make  enough  to  pay  Cabriolet  and  Cazot,  and  all 
the  other  cormorants." 

"This  will  make  it  all  right."  And  he  came  to 
her,  in  his  hand  a  slip  of  paper.  Habitually,  .he  was 
the  meanest  of  men.  Her  astonishment  bordered 
on  alarm. 

"Guido,  you  are  too  kind,  but  I  couldn't — no, 
really,  I  can't!" 

His  brow  reddened;  he  growled  and  blustered. 
Did  she  imagine  he  was  offering  her  money  for 
politeness?  Perhaps  she  thought  he  was  too  poor 
to  help  her  ?     What  other  friends  did  she  count  on  ? 

Still  she  demurred.  With  an  oath  he  flung  down 
the  check  and  tramped  toward  the  door,  muttering, 
"Take  it  or  leave  it!"  She  followed  him,  protesting 
her  inability  to  pay  him  till  May. 

"I'm  not  a  hard  creditor."  His  good-humor  was 
restored. 

"You  see,  Guido,  my  allowance 

lOO 


FORTUNATA 

"Oh,  we'll  talk  of  that  later." 

She  laughed  and  began  to  talk  of  the  latest  gossip. 
He  had  never  known  her  so  diverting.  By  a  tacit 
understanding  neither  mentioned  the  ten  thousand 
lire,  and  Fortunata  waited  until  Dacampagna  had 
left  the  room  before  she  picked  up  the  check.  She 
felt  that  she  was  fingering  blood  money,  though  she 
could  hardly  have  told  why. 

Fortunata's  ideas  of  money  were  of  the  haziest, 
quite  opposed  to  her  methodical  business-like  clear- 
ness in  all  other  matters.  She  lacked  all  under- 
standing of  the  value  of  money.  With  her  income 
she  was  so  careless,  so  extravagant,  so  lavish  as  to 
be  constantly  in  debt.  During  her  father's  dis- 
reputable lifetime  the  family  finances  had  been  run 
in  the  wildest  way.  The  Conte  would  come  home, 
his  last  lira  gone.  In  the  house  every  available  sou 
had  been  gathered,  garnered,  scraped  together,  and 
finally  parted  with.  But  Fortune,  who  had  made 
Rivallo  her  protege,  invariably  turned  to  this  most 
worthless  and  lucky  of  men — either  certain  stocks 
of  the  Contessa's,  thought  to  be  valueless,  dribbled 
in  a  little  money,  or  the  Conte,  by  means  of  his 
blandishments  and  lovely  manners,  induced  some 
friends  to  trust  him  with  an  inconsiderable  sum. 
A  run  of  luck  at  the  gaming-table  would  reinstate 
him,  and  very  splendid  he  managed  to  be  for  a  week 
or  so. 

From  this  early  example  Fortunata  was  possessed 
of  the  idea  that  the  deeper  one  is  in  ruin,  and  the 
huger  one's  debts,  the  nearer  one's  succor  and  the 
more  dazzling.  "The  darkest  hour  is  before  the 
dawn"  had  been  one  of  her  father's  favorite  quota- 

zoi 


FORTUNATA 

tions.  At  his  death  the  Conte  had  piously  declared 
a  behef  that  the  Lord  would  provide  for  the  widow 
and  orphans.  The  orphans,  indeed,  were  in  no  very 
great  straits — their  grandfather  having  settled  a 
yearly  allowance  upon  them — but  the  poor  widow 
was  destitute. 

Check  in  hand,  the  Contessina  next  morning  set 
out  to  put  herself  right  with  the  world.  She  went 
about  all  day  dribbling  a  little  money  here  and 
there,  just  to  show  that  she  could  pay — that  is,  if 
she  wanted  to.  Before  evening  she  had  ordered 
a  new  dress  and  ear-rings,  and  an  aigrette — such 
an  aigrette!  She  came  home  to  find  Dacampagna 
in  the  hall  on  the  watch  for  her.  He  was  very  com- 
plimentary, and  from  that  day  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  was  never  free  from  his  vulgar  gallantry, 
from  the  stare  of  his  plebeian  eyes. 

September  went  by.  Guide's  familiar  looks  and 
airs  of  possession,  his  odious  compliments,  his  in- 
timate hand-shakes,  his  sly  thrusts  in  the  ribs  to 
point  out  this  or  that,  underwent  a  change.  Fortu- 
nata  got  black  scowls  from  him,  gloomy,  brooding 
stares,  ending  with  an  ominous  flushing  of  the  face. 
He  let  fall  several  times  hints,  and  these  the  most 
indelicate,  on  the  dishonesty  of  not  discharging 
debts,  of  receiving  a  price  and  giving  no  payment 
in  return.  Fortunata  was  at  her  wits'  end.  There 
was  no  prospect  of  money  coming  her  way  for 
months.  She  avoided  him  and  affected  a  cold, 
haughty  manner,  an  unwise  policy,  as  after  events 
proved.  He  waylaid  her  in  the  halls  with  muttered 
discontent,  stopped  her  on  the  stairs  with  words 
half-brutal,  half -admiring.     He  dogged  her  in  the 

I02 


FORTUNATA 

streets,  to  theatres,  to  balls.  His  eyes  ferreted  her 
out  and  would  not  give  her  up.  She  grew  sick  of 
watching  out  for  him,  of  scurrying  away  at  his  ap- 
proach, of  listening  to  his  step  at  home  and  dodg- 
ing as  it  neared — of  feeling  at  heart  a  debtor,  a 
guilty  creature. 

One  afternoon  Dacampagna  came  in  drunker 
than  ever,  and  staggering  up  to  Fortunata's  room, 
roared  out  for  a  sight  of  her.  He  battered  at  her 
door  with  his  fists,  his  feet,  until  finally  she  was 
forced  to  thrust  out  her  pretty  head.  She  had 
washed  her  hair,  and  her  brow  was  still  enswathed 
in  a  tow^el.  At  sight  of  her  Guido  hiccoughed  out 
that  she  was  more  beautiful  by  all  the  saints  than 
the  portrait  down-stairs  of  Beatrice  Cenci  in  a  turban. 

Next  day  at  lunch  a  glance  at  Dacampagna  did 
not  reassure  Fortunata,  who  had  spent  much  fever- 
ish thought  on  her  present  dilemma.  He  was  in 
his  pink  coat,  having  come  in  from  hunting;  his 
eyes  smouldered.  He  followed  her  every  gesture 
with  a  look  at  once  covetous  and  jeering. 

Kind,  garrulous  Miss  Billford  declaimed  on  the 
prodigious  progress  Francesca  had  made  in  the 
French  language.  "My  pupil,  Excellency,"  de- 
clared the  governess,  solemnly,  "is  acquainted  with 
that  delightful,  though  infantile,  fiction  Les  Mal- 
heurs  de  Sophie — literally  translated,  the  Mishaps 
or  Misadventures  of  Sophia.'' 

"She  reads  more  than  that,"  the  Princess  opined. 
"Francesca  has  reached  that  age  when  her  litera- 
ture is  kept  under  the  mattress — Willie,  Guy  de 
Maupassant,  Octave  Mirbeau.  I  am  ready  to  wager 
that  that  mattress  is  as  lumpy  as  a  camel." 

103 


FORTUNATA 

"I  assure  you,  no,  Princess,"  intervened  Fortu- 
nata. 

Francesca  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  "No  one 
loves  me!  My  father  is  dead!  I  am  half  an  or- 
phan!" sobbed  she. 

"Half  an  orphan,  true!"  ruminated  the  Princess, 
grown  pensive.  "One  might  almost  say  wholly. 
Your  mother  is  moribimd.  I  wouldn't  stake  a  false 
lira  on  her  life.  But  why  do  you  weep?  As  for 
me,  that  my  parents  are  long  dead  I  am  deeply 
grateful.  Were  they  still  living  what  an  age  would 
be  theirs !  What  decrepitude,  what  annoyance  mine, 
what  expense!  Besides,  an  orphan's  condition  is  not 
unusual.  At  this  table  we  all  are  as  good  as  orphans. 
Are  you  not  an  orphan,  Billford  ?" 

"Alas,  Excellency,  when  I  was  but  a  child — " 

"Exactly;  so  I  had  imagined."  And  the  Prin- 
cess lighted  a  cigarette,  inflating  her  cheeks  like  a 
masque  of  the  North  Wind  in  a  fury.  ' '  Not  one  lit- 
tle puff,  Billford  ?  Singular,  when  you  know  in  your 
heart  you  long  to  smoke  a  hookah  ?"  With  a  back- 
scraping  of  their  chairs,  the  ladies  rose,  while  the 
gentlemen  sat  over  their  wine.  Guido  forestalled 
Luigi  and  opened  the  door. 

As  Fortunata  passed  him  last,  he  crammed  into 
her  hand  something  sharp-edged,  that  proved  to  be 
a  note.  "After  lunch  be  in  the  sala,"  she  read. 
"This  sort  of  thing  has  been  going  on  long  enough. 
I  have  a  right  to  speak  with  you — more  right  than 
most  people,  and  I  will.  I'll  stand  no  more  of  this 
treatment.     Do  you  think  I'm  a  dog?" 

Her  taste  was  offended.  She  was  for  disregarding 
the  letter.     Yet,  thought  she,  the  day  of  reckoning 

104 


FORTUNATA 

must  come;  better  face  him  out  now.  Into  the 
sala,  then,  obediently  she  went.  She  racked  her 
brain  for  an  ingenious,  a  plausible  excuse.  She  had 
so  grown  to  dread  her  creditor  that  the  sight  of  his 
riding-cap  thrown  on  the  divan  made  her  feel  sick. 
She  had  not  been  three  minutes  to  herself  when  in 
swaggered  Dacampagna,  slapping  his  riding-boots 
with  his  crop.  Coming  close  up  to  her,  he  threw 
his  whip  down  on  the  table,  and  crossing  his  arms, 
looked  her  up  and  down. 

"I  have  had  enough  of  this!"  he  cried,  quoting 
his  letter. 

"By  this,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked,  fencing. 

"Che  diavolo!  you  understand  me  well  enough!" 

"Marchese,"  she  cried,  very  pale,  "you  shall  use 
no  such  language  to  me!" 

Guido  was  a  coward.  "Well,  you've  treated  me 
so  badly,  so  badly,  davvero!"  he  expostulated.  "A 
man  loses  patience  in  the  end." 

"If  you  mean  I  have  not  paid  you  what  I  owe 
you,"  she  replied,  haughtily,  "your  patience,  Mar- 
chese,  shall  not  be  strained  much  longer.  Reassure 
yourself,  any  day  I  expect — " 

"The  money  may  go  to  the  deuce.  I'll  never 
feel  the  want  of  a  few  beggarly  lire.  Keep  them — 
you're  welcome  to  them.  No,  no,  Fortunata,  what 
cuts  me  is  your  stand-off  manner,  your  don't-touch- 
me  airs.  Why,  you  won't  speak  to  me  any  more; 
you  treat  me  like  a  cur.  Sangue  di  Dio!  it  isn't 
fair."  And  he  advanced  upon  her  with  the  redden- 
ing of  the  brow  she  had  grown  to  dread.  * '  You  shall 
ask  my  pardon.  Yes,  you  shall.  You  cruel,  tan- 
tahzing,  lovely  little  witch!" 

105 


FORTUNATA 

He  was  so  near  that  she  could  feel  his  breath  upon 
her  face.  She  could  draw  away  no  farther,  having 
backed  against  the  tapestry. 

"Upon  my  sacred  honor,  I'm  bewitched!"  he  said, 
in  a  maudlin  voice.  "You've  fascinated  me,  you 
little  devil!  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  your  face  jumps 
up  in  the  darkness.     I'm  insane  about  you!" 

"It's  not  fair,  Guido,  as  things  are,  to  talk  to  me 
this  way.     Let  me  by,  Guido!"  she  pleaded. 

"First  kiss  and  make  up." 

"Guido,  let  me  by!" 

"First  kiss!"  And  he  put  his  thick  arms  about 
her. 

"You're  mad!"  she  cried,  turning  her  face  rapidly 
from  side  to  side. 

"I  am  mad — you're  to  blame." 

She  was  cold  and  sick  with  fury.  She  stretched 
her  hand  to  one  side  and  caught  from  the  table  the 
riding-crop. 

He  was  deathly  afraid  of  any  weapon,  and  he 
released  her  as  though  she  were  a  live  coal. 

In  the  mean  time  Miss  Billford  and  Francesca  had 
gone  back  to  their  studies.  The  governess  com- 
bined history  and  geography  in  one  lesson.  Fran- 
cesca and  her  instructress  were  proceeding  on  an 
imaginary  trip  through  Germany  at  present,  and 
were  come  as  far  as  Cologne.  Looking  over  her 
glasses,  the  governess  let  her  imagination  run  riot, 
depicting  the  martyrdom  and  death  of  the  eleven 
thousand  virgins.  The  Princess,  who  was  passing, 
stopped  to  listen,  leaning  on  her  cane,  a  cigarette 
in  her  mouth. 

"To  think,  dear  aunt,"  said  Francesca,  who  was 
io6 


FORTUNATA 

still  agog,  "to  think  of  all  those  nice  virgins  buried 
under  the  cathedral!" 

"How  many  virgins?"  from  her  Excellency. 

"Eleven  thousand,  poor,  dear  things!" 

"Pshaw!"  said  the  Princess.  "I  don't  believe 
there  ever  were  so  many." 

At  this  moment  in  came  Fortunata  all  of  a  tremble, 

"Miss  Billford,  can  you  give  me  a  minute?  Will 
you  excuse  us,  Zia?" 

The  young  girl  caught  the  governess  by  the  hand 
and  led  her  into  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  "You 
can  help  me.     Will  you  do  so?" 

"My  little  Fortunata!"  cried  the  kind  old  lady. 

"I  owe  ten  thousand,  eight  hundred  lire.  Yes,  I 
know,  it's  a  great  deal.  Have  you  it?  Will  you 
lend  it  to  me?" 

"Ten  thousand  lire!  I  have  more  than  that." 
Billford  was  all  of  a  flutter,  overjoyed  to  be  thought 
useful.  "I  am  happy  to  be  of  service" — the  voice 
grew  shy — "to  my  favorite  pupil." 

"Thank  you!  Thank  you!"  Fortunata  seized 
the  governess's  hand,  and  with  the  pretty  manners 
of  the  South,  kissed  it.  She  could  go  to  Dacampagna 
now  and  hand  him  back  his  money.  That  very 
evening  she  gave  him  the  check.  Her  polite  smile 
put  Guido  ill  at  ease. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FORTUNATA'S  conscience  was  hardly  more  at 
ease.  "I  shall  pay  you  soon,  Miss  Billford," 
she  would  say. 

The  governess  avoided  all  thanks  with  old- 
fashioned  courtesy.  October,  November  went  past, 
and  never  a  lira  came  Fortunata's  way.  As  for  that 
brilliant  match  she  was  forever  counting  upon,  her 
prospects  were  dwindled  to  two  insolvent  officers 
and  a  consumptive.  She  was  in  debt  again  to  the 
modiste  and  dunned  by  the  bootmaker.  Her  allow- 
ance in  far-off  May  could  not  set  her  straight  now. 
She  had  taken  almost  everything  the  governess  pos- 
sessed. The  old  lady  was  in  straits  to  have  her  shoes 
mended  and  to  buy  her  gloves. 

One  morning  Fortunata  passed  Miss  Billford  listen- 
ing in  the  hall  to  a  dressmaker.  The  woman  had  an 
English  clientele,  and  visited  the  palace  with  fuddy- 
duddy  waists  and  snuffy  kerchiefs,  to  which  vanities 
good  Billford  was  given. 

"This  body,"  Fortunata  overheard  the  governess 
say,  "is  quite  sweet." 

"Only  forty  lire,"  tempted  the  seller. 

"Ah,  well,  I  may  not  have  it  now.  And,  perhaps, 
after  all,  it  isn't  suitable." 

Fortunata  felt  an  ache  at  her  heart.  She  went 
to  her  room  and  set  her  mind  to  work.     I  can't 

io8 


FORTUNATA 

screw  a  lira  out  of  the  Colibri,  she  thought,  and 
Antonia  gives  everything  to  Luigi.  The  Contessina 
was  remarkable  for  her  imitation  of  handwritings. 
The  Princess's  signature,  an  erratic  scrawl,  like  that 
of  a  person  suffering  from  epilepsy,  could  be  counter- 
feited— why  not  write  "Prudenzia  Colibri"  on  a 
check  and  draw  the  required  sum?  After  paying 
her  debt,  she  would  confess.  Her  aunt  and  she  were 
friendly  rascals,  and  would  not  fail  each  other. 
Once  married  she  could  square  herself  with  the  Prin- 
cess, and  then  who  would  be  any  the  worse  ?  Forgery, 
stealing,  was  far  from  the  girl's  conscience.  She  had 
found  the  solution  of  the  problem.  Such  a  simple 
way  out  of  all  this  mess.  She  wondered  she  had 
never  thought  of  it  before. 

Two  days  later  Fortunata,  with  the  look  of  a 
good  child,  trotted  into  her  aunt's  study.  She  had 
come  from  outdoors.  Her  collar  turned  up  to  her 
ears;  her  glance  demure  and  feminine.  The  Prin- 
cess, a  bundle  of  finery,  bent  over  her  writing-desk, 
a  pen  in  her  gouty  hand.  She  was  correcting  a  letter. 
To  adjust  her  sight  she  moved  the  paper  forward, 
then  back,  as  though  playing  a  trombone. 

"Carrissima  Zia,"  wheedled  Fortunata,  "I  have 
drawn  ten  thousand,  eight  hundred  lire  in  your 
name." 

The  Colibri  let  out  a  howl  like  that  of  a  dog 
robbed  of  a  bone. 

"Yes,  wasn't  it  shocking  of  me?"  Fortunata  ad- 
mitted. 

The  feathers,  poised  upright  on  the  Princess's 
head,  trembled  like  the  feelers  of  some  monster 
insect. 

109 


FORTUNATA 

"Ten  thousand,  eight  hundred  lire!  I'm  ruined! 
I'm  lost!"  And  she  beat  her  breast.  It  resounded 
like  a  board.  "What  more  have  you  come  for? 
Here  are  my  rings;  here  are  my  bracelets!"  And 
she  tore  the  jewels  from  her  swollen  hands. 

"Forgive  me!  Be  a  little  patient!  I  will  pay 
you,  on  my  honor!" 

"Honor!"     The  Colibri  gave  a  sort  of  screech. 

"Ah,  if  you  only  knew!  I  was  driven  to  it. 
Carillot  threatened  to  sue  me.  There  was  a  ball 
night  after  night.     I  had  to  have  the  clothes." 

"Just  like  your  father.  Ugo  could  do  shabby 
things,  but  he  couldn't  wear  them."  And  the  Prin- 
cess fell  to  thinking,  holding  her  jewels  on  her 
knees.  Her  smile  was  reminiscent,  melancholy,  the 
smile  of  the  old  when  the  past  surges  back.  In 
fancy  she  was  again  with  her  brother,  plotting  to 
outwit  him.  Her  thoughts  were  w^ith  her  friends — 
a  company  of  rascals,  talented,  jolly  knaves,  all  dead, 
all  gone. 

Fortunata  ventured  to  kneel  closer  to  her  aunt's 
foot-stool.  "I  am  afraid  that  your  rings  may  fall 
and  be  stepped  on,  carissima." 

"Go  away  from  here!"  shrieked  the  Princess, 
simulating  distrust;  and  she  put  on  her  jewels. 
"Ungrateful  child!"  She  started  in  to  shake,  to 
whimper,  as  old  women  do  on  the  stage. 

"You  sha'n't  lose.  Wait  till  I'm  married,"  quoth 
Fortunata. 

Her  Excellency  let  off  a  volley  of  invectives.  It 
seems  she  did  not  count  on  Fortunata's  bridal. 

"Oh,  Zia,  I  was  so  tormented,  the  shop-people 
were  so  rude!" 

no 


FORTUNATA 

"Cheated,  robbed!"  wailed  the  Colibri,  relapsing 
into  the  old  woman.  Wiping  her  eyes,  she  wrote  a 
statement  in  Fortunata's  name,  admitting  the 
forgery  of  a  check  for  ten  thousand,  eight  hundred 
lire,  and  promising  to  pay  when  circumstances  would 
permit.  "And  as  for  interest,"  said  the  Colibri, 
her  features  spread  in  a  crafty  smile,  "I'll  let  it  go 
at  eight  per  cent." 

"As  you  please,  Zia,"  warbled  Fortunata. 

"Write  your  name  here." 

The  young  girl  caught  up  the  pen  and  signed. 
Her  cloudy  hair  brushed  her  aunt's  face. 

The  Princess  folded  the  paper  and  closed  it  up  in 
an  iron  box.  "I  have  lives  here."  Her  voice  was 
a  whisper,  and  she  added,  even  more  softly,  "Here, 
under  my  hand,  human  lives."  Her  eyes  shone 
with  the  crazy  love  of  power  that  possessed  her. 

Fortunata  made  for  the  door.  In  fancy  she  al- 
ready heard  Billford's  shy  thanks. 

The  Princess  called  after  her:  "I  give  you  fair 
warning,  Fortimata.  Sign  my  name  again  and  I 
promise  you  a  rest  cure.  You  shall  repose  in 
prison!" 

"That's  just,"  replied  Fortunata. 

"And  a  word  of  advice.  Your  first  season  you 
might  have  settled  yourself  comfortably.  You 
thought,  'I'm  getting  prettier,  I'll  wait.'  A  fallacy. 
Your  best  years  are  going.  Hurry!  You've  found 
it  all  too  easy.  Look  out !  Before  you  know  it, 
you  will  have  been  young  a  long  time.  Ah,  you 
have  been  wasteful.  I  had  you  better  broken  in 
than  any  other  girl  in  Rome.  And  you  must  take 
to  smoking,  to  drinking,  to  dancing,  like  Salome. 

Ill 


FORTUNATA 

Antonia's  liaison  drags  you  down.  Who's  to  look 
out  for  you?  Not  your  mother,  tied  in  a  true 
lover's  knot  with  her  intercostal  neuralgia.  Your 
chances  are  slipping,  slipping  past.  Time  is  gain- 
ing on  you.     Hurry!" 

The  Princess  beat  the  iron  box  and  chanted, 
"Hurry!     Hurry!"  like  an  eerie  incantation. 

"Heavens,"  Fortunata  declared,  "how  nervous 
you  make  me!  Well,  I  don't  regret  one  of  them! 
Old  spooks  they  were,  all  of  them." 

"Some  were  old.  Widows,  praise  God,  are  made, 
not  bom,"  and  the  Princess  dismissed  her  niece  with 
a  bow  of  her  opulent  wig.  "You'll  go  through  the 
woods  and  take  up  with  a  rotten  stick  in  the  end." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WAS  it  a  cry — shrill,  piercing — or  the  whistle  of 
a  factory?  Fortunata,  in  the  deep  sleep  of 
morning,  drowsing  deliciously,  started  into  con- 
sciousness. She  lay  listening,  the  sun  motes  jigging 
over  her  counterpane.  There  it  came  again — a 
scream  on  the  back  of  another.  Gripped  with  terror, 
she  sprang  from  the  bed,  threw  on  a  wrapper,  broke 
out  of  her  room,  and  ran  into  Miss  Billford. 

"It's  Antonia!"  cried  the  Contessina,  dishevelled 
and  white  with  sleep. 

"  It  is  the  voice  of  our  dear  Marchioness,  or  I  am 
much  mistaken." 

Fortunata  hurried  on  in  the  direction  of  the  cries. 
Persistent,  unashamed,  the  screamer  stretched  her 
throat;  the  Palazzo  reverberated.  On  the  land- 
ing Fortunata  caught  sight  of  Eugenio,  leaning  over 
the  banister,  listening.  At  his  side  a  group  of  ser- 
vants— Nello,  Hortense,  Fidelio,  Mariana,  and  the 
others,  frozen  to  attention.  The  door  of  the  Prin- 
cess's apartments,  giving  on  the  landing,  creaked 
open.  Her  Excellency  thrust  out  her  head,  swathed 
in  something  white.  The  sausage  curls  that  habit- 
ually hung  over  either  ear  dwarfed  the  size  of  her 
face.  Now,  all  unframed,  her  cheeks  appeared 
amazingly  large,  swollen. 

"What's  all  this?" 
^  113 


FORTUNATA 

Mariana,  the  cook,  threw  up  her  hands.  "Ah, 
Signora  Principessa!  Ah,  Eccellenza!  The  Signora 
Marchesa  passes  me  but  now  on  the  stairs.  'I  am 
robbed!'  wails  the  Signora  Marchesa.  *I  am  rob- 
bed!' And  she  cries  like  a  child  under  the  knife — 
aye,  aye,  like  a  child."  All  unconscious,  Mariana 
wagged  her  head,  goggling  up  her  eyes.  "The 
Signora  Marchesa — " 

"Basta!  basta!"  Nello  interrupted.  "It  is  im- 
possible, Eccellenza.  There  have  been  no  thieves 
here." 

The  Princess  looked  about  her  furtively,  pursed 
up  her  lips,  drew  in  her  bandaged  head,  and  shut 
the  door. 

Nello  threw  high  his  hands.  "Contessina,  it  is 
certain,  the  poor  Signora  Marchesa  has  been  looked 
on  by  evil  eyes." 

The  other  servants  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"This  is  superstition,  my  good  man."  Here  Bill- 
ford  came  up,  short  of  breath,  but  conscientious. 

"The  Signor  Marchese  has  not  come  back  from 
Florence,  Nello?"  Fortunata  questioned,  for  Guido 
was  gone  to  see  his  mother,  or  so  he  said.  That 
mother!  The  Dacampagna  brothers  could  never 
have  got  along  without  her. 

The  old  servant  shook  his  head.  "Contessina, 
no.  Guardi,  the  Signora  Marchesa  walks,  she 
walks!"     And  he  pointed  to  the  hall  beneath. 

Fortunata  bent  over  the  rail. 

A  figure  passed  below,  shaking  high  its  hands,  as 
though  holding  a  tambourine.  It  strode  out  of 
sight,  emitting  long-drawn,  cries,  like  an  animal  in 
pain. 

114 


FORTUNATA 

Francesca  came  up,  and  the  Contessa,  the  latter 
carrying  a  mahogany  box,  filled  with  her  moss 
agates,  probably. 

"Where  is  the  fire?"  cried  Francesca. 

The  figure  reappeared.  It  stood  directly  beneath 
them,  inert  and  abruptly  silent. 

Fortunata  said:   "I  shall  go  down  to  her." 

Nello  looked  encouragement. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Fortunata  came  face  to 
face  with  the  Marchesa.  Antonia  was  like  the  ghost 
of  some  one  once  familiar. 

"My  sister,  what  is  it?"  Fortunata  took  her  by 
the  hands. 

Antonia' s  face  grew  more  recognizable.  Tears 
welled  up  in  her  eyes. 

"Maria  Immaculata!  You  are  sufiEering,  Antonia; 
you  are  in  sorrow?"  It  w^as  Don  Luigi's  voice. 
He  had  stepped  in  from  the  street  by  the  open 
door. 

At  sight  of  him  Antonia  let  go  of  Fortunata. 
"Ah,  Luigi  mio,  our  saint  has  forsaken  us!"  She 
took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  into  the  sala,  the 
curtain  falling  into  place  behind  them. 

Fortunata  shrugged  and  came  up  the  stairs.  She 
shrugged  a  second  time  under  the  fire  of  questions. 
"It's  the  Sirocco,"  said  Eugenio;  "I'm  nervous  as 
a  cat."  And  the  servants  disbanded.  Billford, 
puzzled  but  relieved,  went  off  with  Francesca  and 
the  Contessa,  who  kept  asking,  "Is  the  fire  out?" 
in  the  loud,  hopeless  voice  of  the  deaf. 

The  doors  closed,  the  echoes  died  away;  the 
Palazzo,  accustomed  to  these  sudden  squalls,  ceased 
to  reverberate. 

"5 


FORTUNATA 

At  the  colazione  Don  Luigi  smiled  over  the  table, 
unruffled,  fresh-colored,  debonair.  No  one  ques- 
tioned him;  the  event  of  the  morning  was  almost 
forgotten.  In  the  Palazzo  Colibri  tears,  cries, 
tantrums  were  the  incidents  of  the  day.  The 
Marchese  Dacampagna,  however,  was  absent;  nor 
did  the  Princess  Colibri  put  in  an  appearance. 

That  afternoon  at  tea-time  Fortunata  was  about 
to  open  the  door  of  the  Colibri's  boudoir  when  she 
was  startled  by  a  touch  on  the  shoulder,  and,  turn- 
ing, met  the  scrutiny  of  Cardinal  Santinello's  full- 
lidded  eyes.  On  his  chest,  on  his  splendid  robes,  he 
crossed  his  white,  fleshy  fingers.  "A  word,  Con- 
tessina,"  he  said. 

"My  time  is  yours,  Eminenza." 

"Signorina,  I  have  a  service  to  ask  of  you." 

"Anything  that  I  can  do — " 

"The  Marchesa  Dacampagna,  your  sister,  stands 
in  need  of  your  help." 

"Of  my  help?" 

"Yes,  there  are  certain  letters  of  moment  to  her; 
in  fact,  prejudicial  to  her  reputation,  that  have  fallen 
into  unscrupulous  hands — to  be  plain,  the  Princess 
Colibri  got  possession  of  these — er — papers.  She 
refuses  to  give  them  up,  and  for  no  good  purpose, 
I  fear.  Her  Excellency's  dislike  of  my  poor  fol- 
lower is  but  too  well  known.     I  am  anxious — " 

"No  doubt.     What  are  these  letters?" 

The  man  of  God  was  somewhat  discomfited. 
"Judge  not,  lest  ye  be  judged.  The  Church's  duty 
is  to  console,  to  strengthen  and  forgive.  Now  for 
an  hour  I  have  tried,  by  every  means  in  my  power, 
to  bring  the  Princess  Colibri  to  a  more  Christian 

2l6 


FORTUNATA 

humor.     I  have  used  arguments,   persuasions,  al- 
most had  I  said  threats,  and  am  no  better  off." 

"If  you  have  failed,  Eminenza,  what  impression 
can  I  hope  to  make?" 

"You  are  too  modest;  you  have  influence  with 
your  aimt.  You  are  her  favorite,  the  only  being 
she  loves.     Go  to  her,  entreat  her,  exert  your  tact!" 

"I  will  try."  And  Fortunata  added  with  sin- 
cerity, "I  am  fond  of  Antonia." 

"The  Holy  Virgin  be  with  you!"  exclaimed  his 
Eminence.  One  hand  he  raised  in  the  apostolic 
blessing;  with  the  other  he  gathered  about  him  his 
voluminous  robes,  and  went  rustling  down  the 
stairs.  His  coach,  swaying  like  a  cradle,  rocked 
him  to  his  sumptuous  palace. 

That  night  Fortunata  dined  from  home.  When 
she  came  back  it  was  late.  She  felt  her  way  up- 
stairs in  the  dark. 

As  she  passed  her  aunt's  study — 

"Fortunata!"  cried  her  Excellency,  in  a  voice 
harsh,  imperious;  and  the  young  girl  trailed  in, 
her  evening  cloak  slipping  from  her  shoulders. 
Crushed  were  the  blush  roses  on  the  breast  of  her 
dress. 

"Yes,  dear  aunt?" 

"Look,  see  here!"  whispered  the  Princess,  strok- 
ing some  sheets  of  paper  with  an  air  of  bashful  joy, 
quite  shocking  in  so  old  and  hoary  a  sinner. 

Fortunata  glanced  at  the  pages  and  drew  a  chair 
to  the  table.  "I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about 
these  letters,"  she  said.  "They  are  Antonia's.  Will 
you  do  me  a  favor  ?"  She  clasped  her  hands,  plead- 
ing, with  a  glance  gentle  and  shy. 

117 


FORTUNATA 

"The  holy  man  again!"  cried  her  Excellency. 
"How  he  fights  for  his  favorite!  The  schemer! 
Come,  admit  it  was  his  Eminence  who  prompted 
you  ?  He  knows  that  I  can  deny  you  nothing ;  that 
I  rob  myself  for  you  like  the  poor  pelican  that 
tears  its  breast  for  its  yoxmg."  And  the  Princess 
slapped  her  lean  chest,  which  resounded,  even 
muffled  as  it  was  in  a  dressing-gown  and  dolman. 

"Oh,  aunt!"  protested  Fortunata. 

"Don't  'oh,  aunt'  me!  You  owe  me  everything, 
you  little  cormorant.  Who  proved  to  you  your 
talents?  Who  trained  you?  Who  gave  you  am- 
bition and  self-assurance  ?  Who  taught  you  to  be 
pretty?  to  walk?  to  talk?  to  charm?  Your  poor 
old  aunt.  I  found  you  the  leanest  of  the  lean — mean 
features,  more  silent  than  a  fish,  and  took  you  in 
hand  and  formed  you." 

"Indeed,  I  have  not  forgotten." 

"Ingratitude!  At  the  first  chance  you  turn  from 
me  and  side  with  your  sister,  who  cares  no  more 
for  you  than  for  Guido's  old  boots." 

"Princess,  forgive  me;  but  I  think  that  you  are 
unjust,  unkind  to  Antonia.  She  does  not  love  you; 
you  will  not  let  her,  yet  there  is  no  one,  in  spite  of 
your  hardness  to  her,  for  you  are  cruel,  who  is 
more  proud  of  you  than  she.  Often  and  often  she 
says  to  me,  'How  witty — '" 

"You  have  forgotten,  Fortunata,  that  it  was  I 
who  taught  you  to  flatter,"  interrupted  the  grim 
old  woman. 

"Truly,  Princess,  you  have  no  reason  to  hate 
her." 

"Hate  has  no  reason,  no  more  than  love.  I  love 
xi8 


FORTUNATA 

you,  selfish,  deceitful,  thin-cheeked  little  girl — 
why?  You  can't  tell  me, — no  more  can  I.  I  have, 
way  back  inside  me,  such  a  loathing,  such  a  con- 
tempt for  the  getter  of  these" — and  she  shook  the 
letters — "for  your  long,  canting  sister,  with  her 
sentiments  and  her  hypocrisy  and  her  silly,  maudlin 
tears!  Per  corpo  di  Bacco!  Antonia  comes  from 
the  best  blood  of  Italy,  yet  she  must  marry  the  son 
of  a  butcher,  a  man  I  wouldn't  have  for  my  lackey 
— let  that  pass,  he  is  rich — but  when,  with  all  Rome 
before  her,  she  takes  for  her  lover  his  brother,  an- 
other of  that  vulgar  brood,  it  is  unpardonable;  the 
commonest  Lothario  that  ever  drove  the  Pincio  in 
a  hack,  a  Don  Juan  only  fit  to  seduce  shop-girls,  a 
courier  disguised  as  an  officer,  the  hero  of  a  cheap 
novel,  with  his  cachous  and  his  breath  perfumes  and 
his  yellow  gloves — if  only  for  such  execrable  taste 
she  needs  to  be  punished." 

"If  Luigi  is  as  you  paint  him,"  soothed  Fortunata, 
"she  is  punished  enough," 

"But  she  is  happy,  carissima,  that's  what  I  can't 
forgive  her!  You  see  it  in  her  eyes.  You  hear  it  in 
her  voice.  Look — here  he  says  to  her —  No,  see 
yourself,  here,  and  here  again!     Read,  look!" 

Fortunata  drew  back,  offended.  She  was  far  too 
self-centred  to  be  in  the  least  curious,  and  she 
turned  proudly  away. 

The  Princess  was  nettled. 

"I  am  unfit  to  live  with  such  discreet  virtue!" 

"Ah,  Eccellenza,  what  can  I  say  to  you,  how  can 
I  reach  you?  Is  it  money  you  hope  to  get  from 
Antonia?  You'll  make  her  buy  your  silence?  No 
paying  speculation,  I  assure  you.     Guido  is  very 

119 


FORTUNATA 

mean  to  his  wife.  Do  a  better  business,  and  order 
Dacampagna  point-blank  to  give  you  whatever  sum 
you  please.  You  are  of  the  fetish  who  can  push  him 
in  society.  Get  him  invited  to  the  Monte  Chiaro's 
and  you'll  have  five  hundred  lire  down.  Princess, 
for  once,  do  a  big  thing,  a  charitable  thing,  and  give 
Antonia  back  her  letters.  To  keep  them  is  unworthy 
of  you,  and  a  revenge  any  one  might  take.  Surely 
you  have  remembrances  less  hard  of  Antonia.  Think 
of  when  she  was  little;  you  liked  her  then.  She  is 
your  brother's  child.  Don't  cause  her  unhappiness; 
no,  not  as  you  hope  for  heaven!" 

"As  for  heaven,"  ruminated  her  Excellency, 
"from  what  I  have  seen  of  the  world,  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  the  best  company  goes  elsewhere." 

Loyally  Fortunata  worked  for  her  sister.  She 
asked  and  entreated;  she  grew  angry;  she  was  for 
snatching  and  tearing  the  letters.  The  Colibri,  with 
a  baleful  smile,  gathered  together  the  telltale  pages, 
smoothed  them  fondly,  and  tied  them  with  a  neat 
bow. 

"Since  you  won't  give  them  up,"  said  Fortunata, 
beaten,  "what  will  you  do  with  them?" 

The  Princess  answered  never  a  word;  her  eyes 
told  nothing,  overshadowed  as  they  were  by  her 
brows,  those  bushy  groves  of  mystery. 


CHAPTER  XV 

'"T^RY  this  fleur-de-lis,  Fortunata,"  said  Eugenio, 

1  holding  out  a  perfume-sprayer.  "And  come 
see  the  dainty  thing  Aunt  Colibri  is  entertaining," 

It  was  the  following  morning.  The  brother  and 
sister  were  in  the  upper  hall;  Eugenio  took  Fortu- 
nata by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  an  arch  that  gave 
on  the  sola.  There  was  to  be  seen  the  Princess, 
dressed  prodigiously  fine  and  talking  to  a  very  old 
gentleman  in  a  perky  wig  and  a  boutonnihe  nearly 
as  large  as  a  cabbage. 

"Why,  Eugenio,  that's  Prince  Raoul  de  la  Tour 
Bichelle,  Knight  of  the  Roman  Empire,  Grandee  of 
Spain,  something  or  other  of  Austria,  and  I  don't 
know  what  else  besides!" 

Indeed,  it  was  no  other  than  that  same  tripping 
old  beau  in  a  buff  waistcoat  whom  the  Princess  had 
pointed  out  to  her  niece  at  the  Ritz,  when  Fortunata 
was  just  grown  a  young  lady,  as  long  ago  as  four 
years. 

The  Prince  was  perched  in  a  chair,  listening  in- 
tently, his  head  cocked  on  one  side,  like  a  fatuous 
robin. 

"Heavens,  isn't  he  queer!"  whispered  Fortunata. 
"Don't  laugh,  Eugenio.  He'll  be  your  brother-in- 
law  yet.  He's  the  best  match  in  Europe,  the  Colibri 
says,  and  I'm  ready  to  wager  she'll  frighten  him 
into  marrying  me." 

J2I 


FORTUNATA 

"I  give  you  joy,"  said  the  Conte  Rivallo,  sar- 
castically. "The  venerable  gentleman  was  a  fol- 
lower, or  so  I  have  been  told,  of  our  aunt's,  some- 
where in  the  early  fifties." 

"Oh,  Eugenio,"  reproved  Fortunata,  "how  can 
you  rake  up  those  horrid  old  scandals!" 

"  Who  was  that  droll  old  gentleman,"  asked  Miss 
Billford,at  lunch,  "with  the — ahem — artificial  hair  ?" 

"A  husband  for  Fortunata,  d.  v.,"  replied  the 
Princess. 

"Amen!"  cried  the  Contessina,  devoutly. 

Antonia  gave  a  cry.  "If  I  know  Fortunata, 
never!   never!" 

"True,"  admitted  the  Princess,  "he's  a  slippery 
old  bird  and  difficult  to  snare.  When  I  first  knew 
him — I  don't  want  to  count  the  years — there  was 
a  pale  little  soubrette  who  could  have  charmed  the 
heart  out  of  him — these  old  dotards  go  back  and 
love  what  was." 

"For  shame.  Princess!"  cried  Antonia.  "You 
have  a  young  girl  in  your  charge,  and  you  give  her 
over  to  a  man  whose  evil  life  is  the  talk  of  Europe." 

Fortunata  had  pushed  her  chair  back  from  the 
table.  She  was  grown  thoughtful.  She  held  one 
of  the  spaniels  in  her  lap,  and  smoothed  the  dog's 
head.  Her  eyes,  seeming  all  pupil,  looked  into 
space,  with  a  glance  abstracted  and  wistful. 

"I  am  twenty- two,"  she  said  to  her  sister,  "and 
when  a  girl  gets  that  age,  her  life's  a  problem. 
Marry,  and  what  a  tying  up!  Don't,  and  you're  a 
dreary  old  maid.  What's  to  be  done?  I'm  poor; 
I'm  in  debt.    After  all,  one  must  live,  one  must 

122 


FORTUNATA 

dress,"  She  caressed  the  dog,  smiling  sadly.  A 
seraphim,  lately  come  into  heaven,  never  seemed 
more  unsophisticated. 

"A  touch  of  rouge,  to-night,  Fortunata,"  the 
Princess  whispered,  with  an  insidious  leer.  "Just 
a  suspicion.  Your  hair  not  too  severely  dressed. 
A  hint  of  Bohemianism,  of  d&habille,  of  the  aban- 
donment such  as  you  know  so  well  how  to  affect." 

"Who  is  coming?"  asked  Fortunata. 

The  Princess  lowered  her  eyes.  "A  poor  old 
gentleman,  very  old,  very  decrepit,  a  friend  of  your 
aunt's,  carissima  mia." 

At  the  appointed  dinner-hour  Fortunata  came 
through  the  dark  halls,  her  silky  dress  whispering 
about  her  ankles.  In  the  sala  the  family  were 
assembled. 

"My  niece,  Fortunata,  the  Prince  de  la  Tour 
Bichelle,"  cried  the  Colibri,  in  the  strident  notes  of 
a  showman.  The  old  gentleman  tripped  up  to  the 
Contessina  with  all  the  coquetry  of  a  ballet-dancer 
in  disguise. 

"Delighted!"  he  murmured,  inclining  a  wig  so 
firmly  fixed  that  it  seemed  it  must  have  been  bom 
with  him.  "This,  then,  is  the  illustrious  young  girl," 
he  began  in  pedantic  French,  "one  might  say  the 
Rose  of  Rome — ?" 

The  Princess  would  not  let  him  continue.  "I  was 
telling  you,  Raoul,  how  Faustina  Monte  Chiaro,  when 
she  was  a  young  girl,  mind  you,  before  she  was  mar- 
ried, was  Faulcoln  de  Mome's  mistress.  You  knew 
him?  He  was  ambassador  here.  I  met  Faustina 
one  morning  where  the  Caffe  Aragno  is  now,  in  the 
Corso  Umberto  Prime.     She  looked  down  her  nose 

123 


FORTUNATA 

and  breathed  hard.  'People  have  been  saj^ng  I 
have  had  twins,'  said  she.  *0f  course,  you  don't 
believe  it?'  'Faustina,'  I  answered,  'the  world  is 
proverbially  malignant;  I  make  a  point  to  believe 
only  half  what  I  hear.' " 

Dinner  was  announced,  together  with  a  request 
from  Miss  Billford  to  be  excused  on  account  of  a 
headache.  Whenever  guests  dined  at  the  Palazzo, 
the  governess,  who  was  the  soul  of  delicacy  and 
feared  to  intrude,  was  sure  to  be  indisposed. 

"Come,  give  me  your  arm,  Raoul,"  commanded 
her  Excellency,  and  leaning  on  the  Prince,  she 
dragged  herself  through  the  corridors,  cursing  her 
rheumatism.  The  rest  of  the  party  followed,  their 
voices  reverberating  in  the  dim,  draughty  halls.  In 
contrast,  the  dining-room  blazed  with  light  and 
breathed  with  heat.  Along  the  tapestried  walls 
sprouted  gigantic  silver  candelabra  in  the  form  of 
arms  brandishing  sconces.  In  the  vast  apartment 
the  table  gleamed  like  a  strip  of  snow.  Nello  and 
the  younger  servant,  Fidelio,  were  drawing  back 
the  chairs. 

"Take  my  right,  Raoul,"  commanded  her  Ex- 
cellency. "Guido  isn't  here  to-night?"  she  asked, 
pointing  to  the  vacant  seat  on  her  left. 

Antonia,  standing  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table, 
answered,  "No,  nor  yesterday,  nor  the  night  before. 
Ah,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  bitterness,  "God  only 
knows  where  he  is!" 

"No,  not  God,  but  the  Devil!"  snickered  the  Prin- 
cess. 

Meanwhile  Fortunata,  noiseless  as  a  shadow,  had 
taken  her  seat  opposite  the  Prince.     Her  hair  was 

124 


FORTUNATA 

caught  in  a  Psyche  knot,  a  cluster  of  tremulous  curls 
that  gave  to  her  head  the  lightness  and  irrelevant 
grace  to  be  seen  in  Pompeian  figures.  Luigi  and 
Antonia,  seated  side  by  side  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
were  deep  in  some  discussion.  The  Marchesa  ap- 
peared to  be  accusing,  Don  Luigi  denying.  They 
spoke  in  whispers. 

Fortunata's  mother  sat  opposite.  She  shivered 
in  a  shabby  cashmere  shawl  that  in  itself  caused 
an  air  of  poverty,  of  sadness. 

The  Prince  was  a  painstaking  talker;  his  phrases 
were  pompous;  his  form  of  speech  complimentary 
and  laborious.  He  turned  toward  Annie,  chewing 
over  a  remark,  but  the  Princess  cut  him  short. 

For  the  last  few  minutes  her  Excellency  had  been 
eying  Fidelio,  the  new  servant  in  the  Palazzo,  with  a 
glance  of  ferocious  interest.  All  at  once  she  pointed 
to  him.  "Madre  de  Diol"  she  yelled,  rearing  back 
her  brutal  head,  "is  it  the  son  of  a  woman?  His 
legs.  Madonna!  His  legs!  They  form  an  X.  One 
seems  to  say,  '  I  will  pass  this  time,  if  you  will  pass 
the  next.'     Look  at  him!     Madre  de  Diol     Look!" 

The  diners,  with  one  accord,  turned  and  fixed  their 
eyes  on  the  unhappy  servant;  platter  in  hand, 
Fidelio  blushed,  the  figure  of  discomfiture.  Even 
the  Marchesa  brought  to  bear  upon  him  her  intense, 
tragic  gaze. 

As  the  man  left  the  room,  "  Santa  Madonna!" 
Eugenio  cried.  "This  generation  are  monsters,  de- 
formities. The  ancients,  the  Greeks,  would  blush 
for  us."  He  threw  out  his  arm  in  appeal,  his  fine 
cambric  cuff  riding  out  from  under  his  coat-sleeve. 

Meanwhile  Francesca  made  her  tumbler  squeak 

125 


FORTUNATA 

by  drawing  her  finger  round  and  round  the  edge. 
With  the  lack  of  animation  to  be  seen  in  children 
who  are  never  praised  or  petted,  she  rolled  her 
vacant  blue  eyes. 

The  eyes  of  the  Prince  de  la  Tour  Bichelle  were 
small  and  sly,  like  an  elephant's.  At  intervals  he 
cast  covert  glances  across  at  Fortimata. 

"Does  she  remind  you  of  no  one,  Raoul?"  ques- 
tioned the  Princess. 

"Why,  yes — "  he  hesitated. 

**A  little  dancer,  eh,  mon  ami,  of  the  Vari6t6s, 
who  was  so  supple  you  could  have  pulled  her  through 
a  ring?" 

The  old  man  did  not  answer.  He  continued  to 
watch  the  yoimg  girl  with  an  expression  reminiscent 
and  melancholy.  Perhaps  he  was  trying  to  disen- 
tangle the  memories  evoked  by  Fortunata's  face. 

"Ah,  don't  you  catch  it  now,  in  the  curve  of  the 
cheek?  I  saw  that  woman  only  once,  yet  she  is 
constantly  recalled  to  me.  See,  as  Fortunata  looks 
down."  And  the  harridan  pointed  to  her  niece, 
who  went  on  dining,  daintily,  and  with  deliberation. 

A  cry  burst  from  Antonia.  She  had  brought  Luigi 
to  confess.  She  clasped  her  hands,  and  in  the  gesture 
overswept  the  salt-cellar.  As  ever,  abstracted,  she 
was  about  to  pour  the  claret  over  it,  there  being 
some  connection  in  her  mind  between  salt  and  wine- 
stains. 

"Mama  mia!  My  cloth!"  cried  the  Princess  in 
unfeigned  alarm. 

Don  Luigi  caught  the  Marchesa's  hand  in  time  and 
set  the  decanter  on  the  table,  with  the  splendid  chal- 
lenging air  that  characterized  his  every  action. 

136 


FORTUNATA 

The  Princess  rose  from  the  table;  her  Httle  dogs 
ran  in  to  snuffle  up  the  crumbs.  "Raoul,  mon  ami, 
Don  Luigi,  Eugenio,  you  will  all  smoke  in  the  sala." 

Luigi  drew  back  the  portiere,  and  the  ladies  passed 
out,  followed  by  the  men.  Contrary  to  the  Italian 
fashion,  a  fire  roared  up  the  chimney  of  the  sala,  the 
trunk  of  a  chestnut-tree  crackling  in  flames.  Near 
the  hearth  stood  a  table  charged  with  cigars  and 
cigarettes,  liqueitrs  and  barolo.  At  a  telepathic  mes- 
sage from  her  aunt,  Fortunata  took  her  cigarette  as 
usual.  She  had  hardly  spoken  during  dinner.  Now, 
graceful  and  abstracted,  she  swept  across  the  room 
and  seated  herself  at  the  piano.  She  began  to  play. 
Her  touch  was  light  and  indefinite.  Her  playing 
suggested  a  sort  of  flirting  with  the  piano,  the  pas- 
time of  a  musician.  So  casual  was  her  manner  that 
in  watching  her  one  thought,  She  must  be  wonderful 
when  she  tries!  Another  delusion — she  was  doing 
her  best.  The  tresetti  cards  were  brought  out, 
glorious  in  red,  gold,  and  black.  The  Colibri  and 
Eugenio  settled  down  to  the  game.  On  either  side 
of  the  hearth  Fortunata's  mother  and  Francesca  sat 
peering  in  the  vacillating  light,  trying  one  to  knit, 
the  other  to  read. 

Don  Luigi  and  the  Marchesa  had  passed  through 
the  room,  looking  each  into  the  depth  of  the  other's 
eyes — she  gesticulating,  accusing;  he  protesting  in 
his  vibrant,  Southern  voice.  They  seated  themselves 
at  the  far  end  of  the  hall  on  a  bench  before  the  un- 
shuttered window.  Behind  them,  the  moon  glowed 
iridescent  in  a  sky  of  purple  bloom.  The  stars 
seemed  to  palpitate,  beating  together  as  though  with 
a  single  pulse. 

127 


FORTUNATA 

Beneath  Fortunata's  pale  hands  the  notes  of  the 
piano,  languid,  drawn  out,  passed  into  echoes.  The 
Prince  de  la  Tour  Bichelle  came  across  to  her,  drawn 
by  that  something  harmonious,  seductive,  which  she 
possessed.  He  leaned  on  the  piano,  summing  her 
up,  holding  his  monocle  in  his  eye  with  a  grimace. 

"Although  you  don't  know  it,  I  have  seen  you 
before."  She  turned  to  him  with  the  flushing  soft- 
ness that  at  times  transfigured  her  expression.  "It 
was  in  Paris,  at  the  Ritz,"  she  added,  in  the  warm, 
shy  voice  she  kept  for  her  intimates. 

"You  interest  me,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  though 
he  was  more  taken  with  her  proportions  than  her 
words,  and  he  sat  down  beside  her. 

The  young  girl  wore  a  diaphanous  scarf,  which, 
falling  over  her  shoulders,  served  in  some  degree  to 
disguise  their  rounded  lines.  With  that  virginal 
coquetry  that  some  women  so  well  understand,  the 
drapery  was  arranged  discreetly,  with  a  false  modesty 
that  awaked  the  imagination  and  inspired  curiosity. 

He  began  to  talk.  She  listened  to  him,  gravely, 
but  not  discouragingly.  It  is  a  tipsy  old  wretch, 
she  thought ;  all  the  women  have  thrown  themselves 
at  his  head.  I  shall  show  no  animation,  make  no 
effort.  I  shall  merely  be  tender  and  melting  and 
ultra-feminine. 

The  Prince's  speech  was  weighted  with  unwieldy 
words,  classic  quotations,  compliments,  and  jokes 
of  a  mediaeval  obscurity.  When  he  was  helplessly 
entangled,  she  came  to  his  help  with  the  air  of  a 
nurse  soothing  a  refractory  lunatic. 

"Testa  della  Madonna!  San  Sacramento!"  swore 
the  Princess.    The  game  was  going  against  her.    The 

128 


FORTUNATA 

Colibri,  red-faced  after  dinner,  congested  about  the 
jaw,  looked  like  a  hostler  in  a  wig,  while  Eugenio, 
with  his  slanting  shoulders  and  white  skin  threaded 
with  veins,  might  have  been  a  girl  in  disguise.  His 
mother  had  fallen  asleep;  her  little  face,  round  and 
wrinkled  like  an  apple,  bobbed  to  a  melancholy 
rhythm;  her  features  showed  a  network  of  fine 
wrinkles,  brought  on  by  the  anxiety  and  wear  of 
little  nothings.  Francesca's  visage  opposite,  as  yet 
round  and  placid,  a  mere  platter,  nevertheless,  gave 
promise  of  the  same  maturity. 

In  the  street  a  strolling  musician  burst  into  song 
to  the  whining  of  his  organ.  The  lovers  had  left 
their  seat  by  the  window  and  passed  into  the  garden, 
allured  by  the  darkness.  Although  it  was  February, 
one  of  the  windows  stood  open,  so  temperate  was  the 
air. 

"Ah,  Signorina,"  the  Prince  was  saying,  "you 
have  every  weapon  a  woman  can  pray  for — charm, 
wit,  beauty;  above  all,  youth.  What  does  your 
poet  say?  'Springtime — the  youth  of  the  year. 
Youth — the  springtime  of  life.'" 

Fortunata  agreed,  gently  bowing  her  head. 

With  a  little  groan  Annie  opened  her  eyes.  "I 
napped  a  moment,"  she  said,  reproachfully,  "so  I 
won't  close  my  eyes  to-night.  Come,  Francesca." 
And  they  passed  out,  mother  and  daughter,  after 
having  said  good-night. 

The  Prince  took  the  hint.  "Helas!  It  is  the 
time  of  the  adieux,"  he  protested.  He  rose  and 
struck  an  attitude  like  an  old  coryphee.  ' '  I  came  on 
foot.  I  walk  away  on  foot.  Yes,  even  at  this  hour, 
although  I  am  an  old  man."     He  looked  toward 

9  129 


FORTUNATA 

Fortunata  as  though  hoping  she  might  contradict 
him.  "Princess,  Mademoiselle,  Conte,  I  have  passed 
an  evening,  ah!" — in  default  of  language,  he  kissed 
his  finger-tips  and  vanished. 

Eugenio  lighted  a  candle  and,  holding  it  aloft, 
drew  aside  the  portiere.  The  Princess  passed  out, 
making  a  fimny  grimace. 

"Fortunata  is  clever,  but  she  can't  do  it,  I  bet 
you  a  hundred  lire,"  wagered  Eugenio,  lighting  her 
Excellency  through  the  corridors. 

The  Princess  was  pensive.  "I  had  forgotten," 
she  admitted,  "how  plain  my  poor  old  friend  is. 
He  wears  his  moles  in  such  unexpected  places." 
The  old  clown  was  delighted  with  this  sally,  and 
shuffled  through  the  halls,  chuckling.  Her  shadow 
bounded  on  before  her,  a  long  feather  standing  erect 
on  her  brow  like  the  horn  of  a  unicorn. 

The  fire  was  waning,  the  candles  had  already 
burned  out.  In  the  glow  of  the  embers  the  x:offee- 
cups  stood  two  and  two  leaning  toward  each  other 
with  an  air  of  tipsy  intimacy.  There  was  a  rush  of 
skirts,  a  sharp  cry.  The  half -open  window  giving  on 
the  garden  flew  back.  In  the  embrasure  something 
white  appeared  stirred  by  the  rising  wind — a  phan- 
tom, blown  out  of  the  night.  Fortunata  was 
startled. 

"Antonia!"  she  exclaimed. 

The  Marchesa  came  across  the  floor  holding  her 
hands  to  her  throat,  as  though  to  keep  the  blood 
from  spurting  out.  Accustomed  as  Fortunata  was 
to  Antonia's  temperament,  she  was,  nevertheless, 
startled. 

"You  are  ill?"  she  asked,  her  panic  gaining. 
130 


FORTUNATA 

"Far  worse,"  cried  the  Marchesa,  and  she  fell  into 
a  chair,  her  face  in  her  lap.  She  kept  repeating,  "It 
is  all  over — all  at  an  end!" 

Fortunata  knelt  down  beside  her.  "Carissima! 
Sister!"  she  pleaded.  She  heard  the  window  close, 
and  looking  up  saw  Luigi  wandering  around  the 
room  with  rather  an  abashed  air,  the  air  of  one  who 
plays  a  trick  that  succeeds  too  well. 

"Luigi,"  the  young  girl  asked,  sternly,  "what 
have  you  done?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Aye,  Madonna,  who 
knows?"  He  rolled  up  his  handsome  eyes,  half- 
anxious,  half-proud. 

Antonia,  with  loosened  hair  aroimd  her  shoulders, 
thrUvSt  out  at  Luigi  a  long,  accusing  arm.  "He  is 
going  to  Florence!  He  says  he  will  never  come 
back!" 

Fortunata  was  horrified.  She  had  grown  to  ac- 
cept this  attachment  as  a  family  tie.  "He  could 
never  do  that!"  she  cried,  appalled. 

"I  am  ill,  davvero!"  pleaded  Don  Luigi,  in  a  voice 
of  childlike  sweetness.  ' '  I  wish  to  go  to  my  mamma. 
I  have  a  fever.  Feel,  Fortunata — feel  my  pulse!" 
And  he  came  toward  her  with  an  engaging  half- 
smile. 

"Don't  touch  him!"  cried  the  Marchesa.  "God 
forgive  him!  I  would  have  torn  out  my  heart  for 
him  to  eat!  Ah,  misericordia !"  vShe  threw  her 
arms  out  before  her,  thrusting  out  her  ten  fingers 
rigid,  with  that  vehemence  of  the  South  that  is  at 
times  grotesque  and  yet  terrible.  "Luigi,  you  are 
to  be  married!     I  know  it;   I  feel  it!" 

"It  is  true,"  admitted  Don  Luigi.  "When  I  was 
131 


FORTUNATA 

last  in  Florence  my  mamma  said  to  me,  'Luigi  mio,  it 
is  time  that  you  were  settled  and  took  a  wife,  and  I 
have  for  you  a  young  girl — ah,  che  reva!  che  sim- 
patica  ragazza.'  'Alas!  Madre,'  I  told  her,  'I  shall 
never  be  able  to  get  another  woman  out  of  my 
thoughts!  She  is  sympathetic,  beautiful  as  the 
angels,  this  signorina  of  yours,  but  I  am  thinking  of 
another  face.  She  sings  like  the  siren,  Madre  mia, 
but  I  am  dreaming  of  another  voice.* " 

The  Marchesa  rose;  she  had  abruptly  stopped 
weeping.  Her  face,  quick  as  a  child's  to  lose  the 
trace  of  tears,  radiated  with  a  melting  tenderness. 

"Luigi!"  she  said,  holding  out  both  her  hands. 

He  was  touched — felt  a  sudden  attack  of  humility, 
of  tenderness. 

He  took  from  her  the  scarf  she  wore  and  kissed 
it  with  all  the  grace,  the  fervor  of  the  South. 

"I  hear  Guido!"  whispered  Fortunata. 

A  heavy  step  came  stumbling  through  the  hall. 

"It  is  that  dear  brother,"  said  Don  Luigi,  and  he 
shrugged,  with  the  nape  of  his  neck,  as  it  were,  and, 
thrusting  out  his  under  lip,  made  his  jaunty  mus- 
tache ride  up  to  his  nose. 

Screeching  on  its  rings,  the  portiere  was  pulled 
aside,  and  in  the  dim  entrance  Dacampagna  ap- 
peared, holding  on  to  the  curtain  and  swaying  to 
and  fro,  like  a  sailor  clinging  to  the  sail.  He  stared 
into  the  room,  glassy-eyed,  then  advanced  with 
exaggerated  dignity. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FORTUNATA  had  persuaded  the  Princess,  al- 
though her  Excellency  declared  that  she  was 
bankrupt,  to  give  a  dinner  and  afterward  have  in, 
to  recite,  La  Valliere,  whom  they  had  seen  in  Paris 
on  the  occasion  of  their  visit  several  years  ago.  At- 
tenuated, tall,  and  over- thin,  the  French  actress 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  apparently  uncon- 
scious and  indifferent.  Her  narrow  dress  wound 
around  her  and  circled  about  her  feet  in  curves  sug- 
gestive of  a  Pompeian  vase.  Her  face  was  long  and 
pale,  with  prominent  cheek-bones;  her  eyes,  set 
high  in  her  forehead,  deeply  sunken,  and  circled 
about  her  battered  and  somewhat  vicious  face,  were 
transfigured  at  moments  by  flashes  of  a  strange, 
exotic  loveliness.  She  lowered  her  lids  and  hid  her 
anxious  eyes,  wherein  was  read  the  fear  of  losing 
beauty  and  the  fleeting  years  of  youth.  Fortunata, 
listening  to  her  recite  in  a  vibrant  voice  full  of  sex, 
thought,  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  future!  A  sense  of 
power  ran  through  her  veins  like  fire.  By  her  side 
the  Prince  de  la  Tour  Bichelle  dozed;  on  his  waist- 
coat rode  four  pearls,  iridescent.  What  pretty 
double  earrings  they  would  make,  thought  Fortu- 
nata. She  cast  him  a  look  as  masterful  as  that  of 
Judith  before  she  struck  Holofemes.  To  herself  she 
promised,  he  shall  help  me  up  where  I  must  be! 

133 


FORTUNATA 

After  the  guests  had  departed  and  the  Hghts  were 
out,  Eugenio  sought  his  sister  in  her  room. 

"Will  you  talk  with  me  a  little?"  he  asked. 

"Surely,  brother  dear." 

He  vaulted  onto  the  table,  and,  crossing  his  feet, 
showed  his  elaborately  worked  socks  and  slender 
ankles.  He  lit  a  cigarette  and  winced  at  the  smoke, 
like  a  soubrette  in  disguise.  Had  the  splendid  Ugo 
Rivallo  lived  to  see  his  son  mature,  he  might  have 
regretted  the  physical  degeneracy  of  his  race.  Eu- 
genio was  a  head  shorter  than  his  father;  narrower 
by  the  breadth  of  two  hands;  no  thicker  through 
than  a  shadow;  already  he  had  some  obscure  lung 
trouble;  at  times  his  cheeks  were  flushed  as  though 
rouged,  and  his  eyes  held  an  tmnatural  brilliancy. 
His  potations  were  responsible  for  much  of  his  color, 
though  not  for  a  certain  dreary  little  cough.  Never- 
theless, the  young  Conte  had  about  him  a  fragile 
elegance.  He  was  an  aesthetic  fop.  He  decked  his 
poor  little  person  in  fine  clothes  and  brave  colors, 
scented  his  lawn  shirts,  and  went  about  smelling 
like  Araby  the  Blest. 

"Fortunata,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  sister,  "to- 
night I  saw  the  woman  who  could  interest  me.  That 
woman  made  me  think." 

"LaValli^re?" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  like  her  face  at  all,"  Fortunata  declared. 
"She's  so  battered,  so  tawdry,  so  bruised  vmder  the 
eyes.     She  might  be  dead  and  dug  up  again." 

"Possibly,"  admitted  Eugenio.  "I  hardly  know 
how  her  face  looks.  I  felt  her  presence  rather  than 
saw  her.    She  reminds  me  of  some  one,  of  something. 

134 


FORTUNATA 

She  is  hauntingly  familiar.  Before  she  spoke,  I 
knew  her  voice.  In  an  eadier  life  I  must  have  loved 
her." 

"But,  Eugenio,  she  is  so  old.  Why,  that  woman  is 
thirty-five  if  she's  a  day." 

"No,  not  old,  Forttmata,  only  she  has  been  young 
a  long  time.  She  has  outgrown  the  boimcing  crudity 
of  youth — its  ignorance,  its  lack  of  mystery.  I  like 
her  eyes.  They  think  of  all  they  have  seen,  of  all 
they  have  learned.  They  compare,  they  remem- 
ber!" 

"She  is  so  rotten,  so  utterly  bad." 

"That  to  me  is  her  greatest  power.  The  aplomb, 
the  splendid  assurance  of  sin.  A  good  conscience 
doesn't  give  half  the  dignity." 

"But,  my  poor  brother,"  said  Fortunata,  "La  Val- 
liere  is  a  great  courtesan,  rich,  fashionable,  famous. 
She  would  never  give  a  boy  such  as  you  a  thought." 

"Genius  has  no  age,"  Eugenio  declared,  "and  I 
have  genius — I  know  it,  I  feel  it."  Rising,  he  took 
his  sister's  hand  and  kissed  it.  "Happy  dreams, 
Fortunata  mia,  and  good-night." 

It  was  the  climax  of  the  season.  Society  had 
worked  itself  into  a  frenzy.  The  vanity  of  the 
women  flared  up  in  a  supreme  flame.  Each  outdid 
the  other,  and  over  their  fine  clothes  their  faces 
looked  out,  pinched,  worn,  fagged.  The  Duchessa 
da  Monte  Chiaro  organized  a  ballet.  The  aristocrats 
were  to  dance  for  the  poor.  The  Constanzi  Theatre 
saw  the  nobility  rehearsing  every  day — the  young 
and  the  old — yes,  and  the  fat,  too;  debutantes  and 
mothers  crossing  in  the  dance,  for  youth  is  never 
outlived  in  Italy,  nor  the  love  of  laughter.  The  Coli- 

135 


FORTUNATA 

bri,  watching,  nudged  Mr.  Hackburth.  "Charity!" 
cried  her  Excellency,  "how  many  shins  are  uncov- 
ered in  thy  name!" 

At  limcheon  that  day,  "Fortunata,"  the  Princess 
said,  "the  Monte  Chiaro  told  me  that  you  are  to 
have  the  pas  seul.  I  answered  her,  you  deserved  it. 
Indeed,  the  ladies  of  the  ballet,  apart  from  lack  of 
practice,  advancing  years,  and  avoirdupois,  have  no 
desire  to  appear  as  able  coryphees;  on  the  con- 
trary, they  strive  to  prove  themselves  aristocrats, 
in  spite  of  the  footlights,  and  perfect  gentlewomen, 
even  while  pirouetting.  Now,  Fortunata  is  will- 
ing to  show  that  she  is  agile  and  well  made  enough 
not  to  rank  as  a  lady." 

"She  could  take  no  higher  rank,"  says  Miss  Bill- 
ford. 

'  *  Delusion !' '  cried  the  Princess.  ' '  The  sooner  you 
get  that  idea  out  of  your  head,  Billford,  the  better; 
for  sixty  years — pardon  me,  fifty-eight  years — you 
have  passed  as  a  lady — ^have  you  ever  found  it 
amusing  or  profitable?" 

The  governess  crossed  her  hands  on  her  black 
bombazine  skirt.  "I  have  tried  to  do  what  I  be- 
lieved to  be  my  duty,  Excellency,"  she  said. 

"Duty!  Pshaw!  Mere  hypocritical  cringing  to 
public  opinion.  Do  I  sleep  any  the  worse,  do  I  eat 
any  the  less  because  the  Monte  Chiaro  tells  old 
Quimp^re  I'm  a  liar?" 

The  afternoon  of  the  dress  rehearsal  arrived.  The 
troup  of  Bacchus — Bassarid  and  Bacchante — whirled 
across  the  stage,  and  with  a  scream  of  music  the 
dance  was  ended.  The  fauns  threw  themselves  down 
and  blew  their  pipes,  the  satyrs  crouched,  leering, 

136 


FORTUNATA 

hugging  their  hairy  knees.  The  women  showed  less 
dramatic  talent.  The  nymphs  struck  attitudes  with- 
out conviction,  rocking  uncertainly  in  uncomfort- 
able abandonment;  the  riotous  music  ceased,  the 
clashing  of  cymbals,  the  hooting  of  horns,  and  the 
flute  took  up  a  note,  repeating  it  over  and  over, 
melancholy,  queer,  thrilling.  The  theatre,  in  semi- 
darkness,  gave  out  a  damp  and  pungent  odor;  a 
few  dim  figures  spotted  the  monotony  of  seats — 
Mrs.  Hazard  and  Mr.  Hackburth;  Mrs.  Hackburth 
and  Gismondo;  the  Papal  Guard;  Antonia  and 
Luigi;  while  the  Monte  Chiaro  scowled  over  the  back 
of  the  seat  before  her,  a  cigar-holder  in  her  hand,  for 
the  old  lad}^  was  an  inveterate  smoker  of  cigars  as 
well  as  cigarettes.  In  the  front  loggia,  behind  the 
curtains,  the  Colibri  looked  on,  the  Prince  de  la  Tour 
Bichelle  at  her  side.  His  pulses  went  dot-and-carry- 
one  when,  at  a  prolonged  cry  of  the  flute,  Fortunata, 
in  a  tunic  of  dubious  modesty,  a  leopard  skin  over 
her  shoulder,  a  cymbal  in  each  hand,  rushed  into 
view  as  a  bacchante.  She  stood  for  a  moment  in  the 
centre  of  the  stage,  holding  aloft  the  brass  discs, 
her  body  rigid,  her  head  thrown  back,  very  pale  in 
her  tawny  cloak.  Half  closing  her  eyes  in  a  sudden 
abandonment,  she  began  swaying,  gliding,  swinging 
— one  moment  agile  as  a  cat,  the  other  languorous 
as  though  about  to  faint.  The  onlookers  forgot  the 
other  women,  many  of  them  more  beautiful;  forgot 
that  they  had  ever  seen  her  before;  she  was  an 
Archaic  creature,  soulless,  perverse,  dancing  her 
sylvan  dance  to  a  pastoral  piping, 

"Fortunata  is  a  good  girl,"  the  Princess  had  the 
hardihood  to  say.    The  Prince  de  la  Tour  Bichelle 

137 


FORTUNATA 

continued  to  watch  the  dancer,  with  an  expression 
at  once  fatuous  and  sad.  "And  Raoul,"  added  her 
Excellency,  lowering  her  voice,  "elle  est  bien  faite, 
la  petite.  Un  corps  admirable."  The  Colibri  drew 
arabesques  in  the  air. 

"I  have  never  seen  such  another  woman.  Yet 
you  know  I  make  no  pretence  of  being  young." 

And  Fortunata,  as  she  clashed  her  cymbals,  hap- 
pening to  look  right  at  him,  he  lost  his  breath,  grow- 
ing white  as  a  corpse. 

"To  be  in  love  at  my  age  is  to  be  in  love  to  the 
end.  Ah!"  cried  the  Prince,  like  one  giving  over  all 
pretence,  "a  man  of  my  years  cannot  hope  to  keep 
so  beautiful  a  creature!" 

"The  figure  of  a  siren,"  whispered  the  Princess. 

"Les  yeux  d'une  amoureuse!" 

"Yes,  but  not  the  soul.  She's  as  hard  and  cold 
as  this" — ^her  Excellency  rapped  her  diamond  pend- 
ant— "and  as  pure  when  nothing  is  to  be  gained. 
You  can  hope  to  keep  her  for  yourself  always,  be- 
cause, Raoul,  you  can  give  her  as  much  of  these" — 
the  Colibri  lifted  up  her  jewelled  arm — "and  these" 
—clashing  the  gewgaws  together — "as  any  man," 

Back  in  the  shadow  of  the  box,  the  two  old  friends 
interchanged  a  leer  of  incredible  malice  and  meaning. 

"Brava!  Brava!  La  Rivallo!"  The  audience 
clapped,  stamped,  yelled,  and  the  bacchante,  look- 
ing like  Fortunata  for  the  first  time,  laughed  back 
in  gratitude. 

She  felt  victorious,  immortal.  Her  eyes  showed 
her  courage.  She  drew  all  the  men  after  her.  They 
were  eager  to  carry  her  cymbals,  her  leopard  skin, 
to  touch  the  white  arms  that  had  coiled  about  in  the 

138 


FORTUNATA 

dance.  In  the  stuffy  dressing-room,  under  the 
flaming  gas-jet,  Hortense  unclasped  her  mistress's 
sandals. 

"Ah,"  cried  the  maid,  "it  makes  to  pity,  the  state 
of  Monsieur  le  Prince,  so  enamoured  of  Mademoiselle! 
When  Mademoiselle  was  dancing — " 

"You  are  too  conscientious,  Hortense." 

"I  do  not  comprehend,  Mademoiselle — " 

"My  little  Hortense,  you  earn  your  money  well." 
And  Fortunata  gave  the  servant  a  quick,  meaning 
look. 

Skirt,  coat,  and  hat  on,  and  dapper  as  could  be, 
Fortunata  tripped  into  the  hall,  when  a  claw-like 
hand  caught  her  arm,  and  a  little  black  head  rose 
up  on  the  level  with  hers. 

"A  word.  Mademoiselle;  a  moment,  an  instant!" 

In  the  semi-darkness  the  Prince  looked  so  small 
and  scared  that  Fortunata  was  tempted  to  put  her 
hand  on  his  throat  and  say,  "Marry  me!" 

"My  time  is  yours.  Monsieur,"  she  murmured. 

He  pushed  back  the  door  of  one  of  the  loggias,  held 
it  open  for  her,  then  followed  her  in. 

"You  are  an  artiste!"  he  groaned,  in  a  distracted 
way. 

She  protested. 

"The  others  are  artisans  beside  you,  clumsy 
artisans!  Who  is  like  you  ?  Not  one.  Mademoiselle, 
forgive  me,  if  I  dare — you  are  beautiful,  you  are 
young,  I  am  nothing  beside  you — I  am  fifty-nine," 
said  the  poor  old  gentleman,  who  was  much  nearer 
seventy.  "One  sees  greater  differences  of  age  every 
day.  Everything  a  woman  can  want  you  shall  have 
— bracelets  for  these  lovely  arms,  a  necklace  for 

139 


FORTUNATA 

your  throat — trust  me,  I  can  make  you  happy." 
And  he  seized  her  hands,  covering  them  with  kisses 
and  senile  tears. 

A  sudden  sense  of  sickness  came  over  her,  her 
fingers  turned  to  ice. 

"Marry  me!    Be  my  wife!" 

She  looked  away  from  him  and  braced  herself. 

"I  will  marry  you."  She  had  hardly  voice 
enough  to  say  the  words. 

He  went  down  on  his  knees,  in  spite  of  dust  and 
rheumatism. 

"My  adored  one!    My  Fortunata!" 

He  is  very  unattractive,  thought  Fortunata,  feel- 
ing faint.     One  of  the  pearls  burst  from  his  shirt. 

"Ah,  let  it  go!"  cried  her  ecstatic  lover.  But 
Fortunata,  at  the  vision  of  incomplete  earrings,  ex- 
claimed : 

"Never,  dearest!" 

Hand  in  hand,  they  knelt  down,  sought  beneath 
the  sofa  and  found  the  jewel. 

He  led  her  to  the  carriage,  guided  her  steps,  and 
upheld  her  as  though  she  were  a  prey  to  paralysis. 
Outside,  the  air  was  warm  and  bright  compared  to 
the  dark  corridors  of  the  theatre.  The  people,  re- 
joicing in  the  pleasant  hour,  were  flitting  through 
the  street,  and  the  sun  was  sinking  in  a  glory  of 
red  and  gold.  Fortunata  turned  to  give  a  supreme 
good-bye. 

The  Prince  exclaimed,  "God  bless  you,  my  be- 
loved!" Still  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  let  go 
her  hand.  In  the  clear  light  of  the  spring  evening 
Fortunata  saw  but  too  plainly  her  future  husband. 
He  stood  with  one  bespatted  foot  on  the  carriage 

140 


FORTUNATA 

step.  His  face  wore  an  expression  at  once  droll 
and  pathetic.  She  was  conscious  of  his  waxen  com- 
plexion and  the  crows'  feet  about  his  eyes.  In  her 
dreams  of  wealth  and  power,  the  reigning  monarch 
had  never  figured.  Her  heart  sank.  She  felt  as 
though  a  sudden  misfortune  had  overwhelmed  her. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

GOOD  FRIDAY,  the  holiest  of  days,  had  come. 
Processions  of  priests  filed  through  the  streets, 
the  seminaries  of  France  with  their  blue  cords,  those 
of  Germany  with  their  red,  those  of  Spain  with  their 
yellow,  those  of  Bulgaria  with  their  green,  those  of 
Austria  with  their  orange.  The  monks.  Capuchins, 
Carmelites,  Franciscans,  the  Brothers  of  the  Poor, 
went  slowly  through  the  sunlight  droning  their 
masses.  Holy  relics  were  borne  through  the  city — 
bones  of  saints,  blood  of  mart5TS,  the  veil  of  the 
Virgin,  the  staff  of  the  best-beloved  apostle.  There 
were  crowds  to  the  left,  to  the  right,  a  sea  of  shifting 
faces,  of  outstretched  arms. 

"Maria  Santa,  San  Giovanni,  Maria  Dolorosa, 
Santo  Spirito!"  The  bells  rang,  the  sim  shone,  the 
choristers  sang.  The  boys  with  voices  like  flutes, 
the  baritones,  the  bassos  thundering  in  praise. 

"Ecco,  the  Host!" 

And  the  people  went  down  with  bowed  heads,  as 
at  the  coming  of  the  last  day.  Behold,  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  street,  a  sun  upon  earth,  more  burnished 
than  the  shield  of  Achilles,  the  Host  borne  in  triumph 
by  the  Princes  of  the  Church!  Their  stoles  were  of 
purple  and  orange,  scarlet  and  shimmering  green, 
like  the  scales  of  a  sea-monster,  worked  in  opalescent 
devices,  many-rayed  suns.     On  they  came,  walking 

142 


FORTUNATA 

in  a  cloud  of  incense,  like  an  army  blazing  in  the 
sun. 

In  and  out  of  St.  Peter's  the  crowd  surged,  con- 
flicting, turning  back,  sweeping  on,  an  unquiet  shift- 
ing mass.  At  five,  before  the  vespers,  a  priest  ap- 
peared on  the  balcony  up  among  the  rafters.  He 
shook  out  and  held  aloft  a  cloth  stained  with  sweat 
and  blood — said  to  be  the  cloth  wherein  St.  Veronica 
wiped  the  face  of  Christ.  Next,  behold  the  spear 
that  pierced  His  side,  and  a  piece  of  the  cross  on 
which  He  suffered.  Amid  the  vast  aisles  silence 
brooded,  then  all  at  once  a  sigh  went  up  from  the 
adoring  multitude. 

St.  John  Lateran  is  the  modish  church  of  Rome. 
On  Good  Friday  it  is  more  crowded  than  the  Grand 
Hotel.  Society  flocks  thither  to  parade  the  Easter 
fashions,  to  spy  every  one  upon  his  neighbor,  to 
make  love.  It  serves  as  a  Roman  Longchamps — an 
occasion  to  frivol,  to  wear  fine  clothes,  to  choose  a 
new  lover,  or  a  new  mistress. 

Fortunata  was  there  in  a  dress  fitting  like  a  glove, 
and  on  her  finger  a  monster  ruby,  de  la  Tour  Bi-- 
chelle's  engagement  ring.  Proud  of  her  figure,  she 
passed  amid  the  pillars  of  porphyry  and  alabaster; 
she  moved  among  the  forests  of  lapis-lazuli,  undulat- 
ing like  a  self-conscious  snake.  She  had  her  usual 
following — de  Brillac,  Quesconti,  Monte  Varchi 
Gismonde,  and  two  or  three  officers  who  always 
walked  in  her  steps.  As  for  her  tiresome  old  fiance, 
he  never  left  her  side.  She  made  her  way  to  the 
high  altar,  and  stood  watching  the  celebration  of 
the  mass.  The  young  men  gathered  around  her, 
cutting  out  the  poor  Prince,  whispering,  cajoling, 

143 


FORTUNATA 

each  apparently  unconscious  of  the  others,  Hke  a 
swarm  of  bees  around  the  same  flower.  The  chaliced 
lilies  gave  out  a  heavy  fragrance.  The  incense  was 
oppressively  sweet.  Two  lovers  passed.  In  Italy 
the  love  of  man  for  woman  predominates  over  every 
occasion,  over  every  situation.  Don  Luigi  sauntered 
up,  a  voluptuous  orchid  drooping  in  his  button-hole. 

"Ah,  Contessina,  comm'  e  bella!"  And  he  joined 
her  group  with  a  swagger  semi-blusterous,  semi- 
sentimental.  "Ah,  Prince,"  he  cried,  "che  bella 
festa,  che  belle  donne !  La  Valli^re  is  here, ' '  he  added 
to  de  Brillac.  "A  dream!"  He  kissed  his  fingers, 
murmuring,  "Ah,  what  a  figure!" — and  he  waved 
his  hat,  indicating  curves  and  s's — "the  loveliest 
woman  here  after  the  Contessina." 

The  organ  growled,  it  roared,  it  let  out  its  big 
voice.  The  aisles  echoed,  the  beams  reverberated; 
and  thundering,  the  music  ceased,  leaving  the  church 
vibrating.  A  priest  took  up  the  Jeremiads,  the 
plaintive  trills,  the  nasal  melancholy  chords — on 
and  on  went  the  chant — eerie  as  a  song  of  the  dead, 
unthrilling,  deprived  of  all  the  warmth  of  sex. 

In  the  shady  aisles  boys  of  fifteen  and  sixteen 
swaggered,  aping  the  ways  of  men.  Strange  little 
dandies  with  canes  and  monocles  ogling  the  women. 
At  a  sudden  wail  of  the  Jeremiads,  La  Valliere  passed, 
all  in  red  like  the  woman  of  the  Apocalypse,  her 
skirts  brushing  the  tiles  of  the  church  like  a  scarlet 
meteor;  and  after  her,  her  shadow,  came  Eugenio 
in  black,  like  Hamlet,  with  pale  face.  To  hear 
Eugenio  talk,  he  was  near  to  death.  He  ranted  and 
spouted  about  the  Frenchwoman  in  his  finest  style. 
He  sickened  from  his  sentimental  malady.     He  had 

144 


FORTUNATA 

made  Fortimata  the  confidante  of  his  hope  and  re- 
buffs and  despair.  For,  unHke  the  Anglo-Saxon, 
the  Continental  takes  a  pride  in  analyzing  and  dis- 
secting his  passion. 

The  men  about  Fortunata  turned  for  an  instant 
to  watch  the  famous  cantatori  pass  by. 

"Contessina,"  Don  Luigi  whispered,  "let  us  go  to 
the  Christo  Salvatore." 

And  she  answered,  "Va  bene,"  and  gave  her  tire- 
some old  fiance  the  slip. 

The  Christo  Salvatore,  according  to  the  legend, 
is  the  image  found  by  Saint  Mark  in  the  caves  of  the 
fishermen  working  wonders  by  the  sea.  It  is  en- 
dowed, says  the  fable,  with  miraculous  powers;  it 
can  cure  and  console.  On  Good  Friday  the  effigy 
of  the  Christ  lies  in  state  at  the  head  of  a  steep 
flight  of  steps  leading  to  a  court  back  of  San  Gio- 
vanni's. Six  tapers,  thick  as  a  man's  forearm,  flame 
around  the  pallid  head.  The  figure  is  chiselled  in 
wood,  the  face  pock-marked  with  dents  of  blood  and 
sweat.  It  is  the  work  probably  of  one  of  the  earliest 
believers.  He  was  a  poor  workman,  no  doubt,  and 
yet,  like  all  incomplete  efforts,  this  piece  of  wood 
stirs  the  heart  gazing  at  it;  one  feels  the  horror  of 
pain,  the  loneliness  of  death.  It  lies  there,  touching 
and  awful,  crowned  with  thorns — an  effigy  of  the 
crime  of  the  world.  The  poor,  the  destitute,  the 
hopeless  come  to  it  up  the  steep  stairs,  step  by  step, 
walking  on  their  knees.  Fortunata  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  flight,  Luigi  at  her  side.  She  looked 
down.  With  bent  back,  groping  hands,  tired,  ach- 
ing, the  worshippers  climbed  on.  They  were  mostly 
old,  and  mostly  women.    In  honor  of  the  fesia  some 

lo  145 


FORTUNATA 

wore  their  finery,  others  were  in  black,  dreary  livery 
of  the  poor.  Here  and  there  was  seen  a  bright  young 
head,  brown  or  golden,  a  mother  dragging  up  a 
rebellious  child.  Here  and  there  a  scarf,  orange  or 
scarlet,  of  the  contadini,  shading  the  eyes,  or  the  hats 
of  the  poor — dismal  little  bonnets  that  draw  tears  to 
the  eyes. 

Suddenly  Fortunata  caught  sight  of  Antonia's 
face.  The  Marchesa  was  working  her  way  up  the 
stairs,  among  the  rest,  on  her  knees.  Her  head  was 
thrown  back.  She  was  pale.  Her  eyes  were  closed. 
Underneath  her  dark  lashes  slipped  tear  after  tear 
as  she  struggled  on  among  her  humble  sisters.  On 
they  came,  these  sisters  of  sorrow;  they  kissed  the 
feet  of  the  Saviour,  His  hands,  and  the  wound  in  His 
side  opened  by  the  ungrateful  spear.  Devoutly  they 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross ;  they  crossed  their  hands 
grown  rough  in  hardship;  they  prayed;  many  of 
them  wept,  and  it  was  evident  that  they  believed. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  Christ  chose  for  His  companions 
the  humble,  the  destitute,  that  He  so  loved  the  out- 
cast, the  lepers,  the  scum  of  this  poor  earth. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  spring  was  come.  The  assiduous  attentions 
of  Fortunata's  elderiy  fiance  shortly  became 
boring  in  the  extreme,  and  her  aim  was  to  escape 
as  much  as  possible  from  her  tiresome  companion. 
Indeed,  the  poor  child  had  grown  to  dread  certain 
ancient  anecdotes  and  complicated  histories,  re- 
ferring to  once  resplendent  beauties,  now  no  more 
than  a  handful  of  mouldering  earth.  As  to  the 
Prince's  bon  mots — those  hideous  hon  mots,  the  treas- 
ured words  of  half  a  century — they  plunged  her 
into  measureless  despair.  When  her  lover  com- 
pared her  to  Venus,  or  floundered  in  some  reference 
to  herself  and  the  nine  muses,  she  helped  him 
through  his  compliment  with  the  air  of  a  trained 
nurse  upholding  a  swooning  patient.  Interminable 
were  the  luncheons  at  which  the  Prince  was  regular- 
ly present.  Having  presented  his  fiancee  with  roses 
— red  roses  for  love — he  would  kiss  her  hand  and 
lead  her  to  the  table  with  as  much  care  as  though 
she  were  made  of  the  finest  cracked  porcelain.  The 
Princess  was  silent,  with  a  roving  eye  toward  a  pos- 
sible quarrel.  The  Prince  was  garrulous,  ate  much, 
chewed  long,  made  himself  wearisome  generally, 
save  to  Miss  Billford,  who  was  led  to  talk  of  the 
British  beauties.  Eugenio  brooded,  while  Antonia, 
deep  in  her  love-affair,  gazed  across  the  cold  meat 

M7 


FORTUNATA 

out  of  the  window.  Fortunata  removed  her  astral 
body,  but  was  brought  back  to  earth  by  the  Prince, 
who  leered  at  her  through  his  wine-glass.  What  an 
old  satyr!  she  thought,  as  she  inclined  her  head  in 
graceful  recognition,  while  her  eyes  took  on  a  dreamy 
and  tender  expression. 

From  a  sense  of  self-preservation,  the  Contessina, 
on  principle,  rarely  looked  at  her  future  husband. 
However,  as  they  turned  home  after  interminable 
hours  together  in  the  garden,  she  would  cast  him  a 
glance  through  her  eyelashes.  At  the  glimpse  of  his 
quizzical  face,  shrivelled  and  parchment-like,  the 
impossibility  of  this  marriage  swept  over  her.  She 
entered  the  house  brooding  on  the  means  of  breaking 
her  odious  engagement. 

Fortunata  was  fighting  through  one  of  those 
phases,  known  to  all,  of  a  measureless  fatigue,  when 
everything  gives  way  beneath  one,  when  the  world 
holds  nothing  that  can  beckon  or  allure.  What 
inveterate  perseverance  merely  to  wash,  dress,  feed 
this  carcass!  What  energy  and  pluck  to  battle 
through  these  wasting  trivialities!  Often  did  she 
laugh  to  keep  from  crying. 

Antonia,  in  the  r61e  of  elder  sister,  was  striving 
to  save  Fortunata  from  "this  miserable  sale,"  as 
she  termed  the  marriage.  "A  life  without  love  is 
like  a  lyre  without  strings,"  she  declared,  tragically, 
rising  from  dinner  with  a  banana-skin  hanging  to 
her  fan-chain,  at  the  close  of  a  discussion  with  the 
Princess  in  which  her  Excellency  had  maintained 
that  age  in  an  imloved  husband  should  be  reck- 
oned as  a  distinct  quality,  since  the  older  he  is 
the  sooner  will  he  be  well  under  ground. 

148 


FORTUNATA 

"A  life  without  love?"  retorted  the  Princess.  "I 
do  not  follow  you.  Why  should  the  existence  of  an 
old  and  homely  husband,  an  undying  Methuselah,  if 
you  will,  restrict  our  poor  Fortunata  to  the  part  of 
a  Griselda?  Even  a  woman  after  your  own  heart, 
Antonia,  might — " 

"Princess,  when  the  Just  Judge  shall  ask  you 
what  you  have  done  with  the  young  life  entrusted 
to  your  care,  I  tremble  for  your  answer.  It  can  be 
but  a  guilty  blush." 

"Look  to  yourself,  chaste  Susanna — is  yours  so 
immaculate  a  record,  are  there  no  questions  you 
fear?" 

"Whatever  my  shortcomings  may  be,  I  thank 
God—" 

"Hallelujah;  but  don't  bring  sacred  things  into 
the  discussion." 

"No,  for  they  mean  nothing  to  you.    Addio!" 

It  was  a  Thursday,  the  night  of  Lord  Bolton's 
weekly  dinner-dance.  Fortunata,  shaking  hands 
with  her  hostess,  felt  a  stranger's  eyes  upon  her, 
and  turning  met  the  look  of  a  tall  young  man — 
prodigiously  tall  he  was — and  big  and  blond. 

"Lord  Trevers,  the  Signorina  Rivallo,"  said  Lady 
Bolton.  "Our  cousin,  Fortunata,  and  the  new 
military  attache." 

The  man  bowed  to  Fortunata,  looking  at  her  gravely. 

She  smiled  at  him  and,  having  spoken  to  her 
hostess,  turned  away,  giving  him  not  a  thought. 
Later,  she  remembered  that  she  had  known  no 
presentiment  on  seeing  him,  had  felt  no  presage  of 
what  he  afterward  must  mean  to  her. 

149 


FORTUNATA 

At  dinner  Fortunata  found  herself  between  two 
bores — one  of  them  her  fianc^;  opposite  sat  Lord 
Trevers,  straighter  than  a  soldier  on  parade.  He 
was  telling  the  lady  next  to  him  how  his  terrier 
killed  rats.  He  spoke  without  gestures,  though  with 
a  certain  ponderous  animation.  It  was  to  an  old 
Jezebel  he  was  talking,  the  wife  of  the  French 
Minister,  rouged  to  a  hectic  flush  and  barer  over  the 
chest  than  a  plucked  chicken.  She  did  not  want 
to  speak  of  rats,  and  seemed  highly  discomfited. 

He  is  not  very  intelligent,  thought  Fortunata, 
gazing  into  her  soup;  nevertheless,  momentarily,  out 
of  the  comer  of  her  eye,  she  watched  the  clean, 
arrogant,  well-fed  Englishman. 

"He  is  rather  good-looking,"  she  said  to  Pearl,  as 
the  two  girls  after  dinner  were  prinking  in  the 
dressing-room. 

Miss  Case  had  taken  off  her  curls  and  was  comb- 
ing them  vigorously.  "He  has  the  goods,  too,"  she 
answered,  pinning  on  her  coiffure.  "He  is  the  best 
match  in  Rome  now.  Ah,  my  dear,  you  spoiled 
your  game  when  you  got  tied  up  with  grandpa." 

And  now  from  every  source  Fortunata  learned  that 
Lord  Trevers  was  wealthy  and  of  the  best  blood  in 
England.  Gossip  said  that  he  wanted  an  English 
wife.  Lady  Bolton  offered  both  her  daughters.  Miss 
Case,  rumor  said,  was  attentive  to  hini.  He  him- 
self had  not  yet  seen  the  girl  or  woman  he  could 
love. 

Fortimata  found  him  attractive,  drawn  to  him 
as  her  t5^e  is  by  the  primitive,  simple,  stupid  man. 
As  for  Lord  Trevers,  he  never  looked  her  way,  and 
his  imconcem  gave  him  value.     In  Lady  Bolton 

ISO 


FORTUNATA 

was  no  guile.  Her  efforts  to  marry  off  her  daughters 
were  as  shameless  as  her  false  front — a  thing  so 
palpable  that  you  blushed  to  look  at  it.  She  hand- 
ed Lord  Trevers  her  children  alternately.  It  was 
"Richard,  won't  you  and  Millicent  try  this  ma- 
zourka?"  "Dick,  I  should  like  to  see  Violet  and 
you  waltz  together."  He  seemed  a  tractable  giant, 
and  led  his  cousins  out  to  dance,  stepping  on  their 
feet  and  looking  very  solemn.  He  is  an  ass !  thought 
Fortunata,  and  yet,  somehow,  she  liked  him. 

The  carriages  were  called.  Fortunata  said  good- 
night to  Lord  and  Lady  Bolton,  to  their  daughters, 
and  to  Lord  Trevers.  He  looked  at  her  coldly,  or, 
rather,  passed  her  as  though  she  were  not.  She 
was  chilled,  accustomed  to  the  Italian  glance,  that 
lights  up  before  any  woman,  however  plain  or  old. 

I  will  make  him  love  me,  thought  Fortunata. 

She  had  flung  her  cloak  over  her  shoulders,  and, 
stepping  from  the  dressing-room  as  he  passed  through 
the  hall,  she  came  his  way.  He  bowed  and  turned 
aside.  She  bowed  and  stopped.  They  stood  look- 
ing at  each  other — the  tall  young  man,  his  eye-glass 
in  his  eye;  the  girl  in  her  long  cloak. 

"Lord  Trevers,"  said  Fortunata,  "you  were  speak- 
ing to-night  of  wanting  to  make  up  a  club  for  boat- 
ing on  the  Tiber  ?  I  know  the  people  you  would 
like,  the  most  congenial.  I  should  like  to  help  you; 
may  I  do  so?" 

Surprised  by  something  in  her  voice,  he  looked 
at  her  and  concluded  that  really  he  could  not  have 
seen  her  before.  He  was  startled  by  her  face.  Per- 
haps she  wasn't  pretty,  exactly,  but,  poor  girl,  she 
was  an  Italian.     He  remembered  to  have  heard  of 

151 


FORTUNATA 

her  neglected  childhood,  of  her  drunken  father,  of 
a  mother  that  no  one  ever  saw.  Poor  child!  If  she 
had  any  sensibility  she  must  have  suffered. 

All  the  time  Fortunata  was  looking  at  him,  pale 
and  grave.  No,  there  was  no  getting  away  from 
it,  she  had  very  taking  eyes. 

"You  are  most  kind,  Signorina,"  he  answered, 
and  he  added,  with  a  slight  stammer,  "it  would 
t-t-take  time." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  seriously;  "if  you  have  a 
moment.  Lord  Trevers,  to-morrow,  come  to  the 
Palazzo  Colibri  to  tea.     We  can  talk  it  over." 

He  bowed  and  saw  her  to  the  carriage.  She 
thanked  him  and  shook  hands.  She  was  utterly 
changed.  Her  intimates  would  not  have  known 
her.  The  something  teasing  and  inviting  that  char- 
acterized her  manner  with  men  was  gone.  Lord 
Trevers  did  not  approve  of  the  tone  she  took  with 
her  admirers.  He  saw  no  reason  why  a  young  girl 
bom  to  Fortunata' s  position  should  descend  to  the 
allurements  of  a  courtesan. 

Next  day  the  garden  of  the  Palazzo  Colibri  was  as 
fragrant  as  Eden  with  the  box  and  cypress  and  per- 
sistence of  the  sun.  The  Princess  Colibri  was  in  her 
arbor  that  overlooked  the  city.  She  was  in  scarlet 
and  yellow,  like  a  great  ugly  tulip.  Miss  Billford  sat 
on  the  steps  of  the  summer-house  embroidering  a 
crest  on  one  of  the  dogs'  blankets,  while  Fortunata 
lay  on  the  grass  holding  a  leaf  between  her  lips  like 
a  faun,  her  well-brushed  hair  glowing  in  the  sun. 

"Is  Raoul  coming?"  asked  her  Excellency. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  answered  the  young  girl, 
yawning. 

152 


FORTUNATA 

"He's  a  frail  old  thing,"  observed  the  Princess. 
"Now,  I'm  a  heavy  woman,  and  when  he  offers  me 
his  arm  to  help  me  down  the  stairs,  his  hand  is  like 
a  little  dead  bird's  claw.  I  fear  he'll  come  to  pieces, 
I  do  assure  you,  I'm  so  nervous." 

"It  seems  to  me,  Excellency,"  murmured  Miss 
Billford,  "if  I  may  say  so,  that  for  a  gentleman  of 
more  than  mature  age  the  Prince  is  well  preserved 
and  has  very  fine  teeth,  and  a  sweet  smile,  I  am 
sure." 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  cried  the  Princess;  "they're  all 
false  except  one  in  the  front,  and  that's  gold." 

"Oh,  aunt,  really!"  protested  Fortunata,  yawn- 
ing, stretching  like  a  cat. 

' '  Fortunata  is  after  other  pearls — the  one  he  wears 
in  his  waistcoat — hee!  hee!"  And  in  a  paroxysm 
of  joy  the  Princess  nudged  Billford,  who  dropped  her 
embroidery,  confounded  by  embarrassment  and  be- 
wilderment. 

It  was  still  warm,  the  air  resonant.  The  sound 
of  feet  approached,  crushing  the  gravel,  and,  ushered 
in  by  Nello,  the  Prince  Raoul's  page  appeared.  He 
was  a  dapper  little  boy  covered  with  braids,  with 
buttons  and  gilt.  He  stood  in  the  sunlight  gleaming 
and  bowing, 

"Monsieur  de  la  Tour  Bichelle  presents  his  com- 
pliments to  her  Excellency,  the  Princess  Colibri,  and 
to  the  Contessina  Rivallo.  He  begs  the  Contessina 
to  accept  these  flowers  and  his  regrets  that  the  Con- 
tessina has  left  Rome  for  the  day."  The  boy  laid  a 
floral  pyramid  at  Fortunata' s  feet,  and  backed  with 
Nello  behind  the  thick  hedge  of  intergrowing  box. 

"You  are  leaving  Rome  for  the  day,  Fortunata?" 
153 


FORTUNATA 

"I  have  left  already,  Zia,"  the  young  girl  said, 
lifting  up  her  flowers. 

"Whom  are  you  expecting?"  asked  her  Ex- 
cellency. "Is  it  wise  to  tell,  above  all  to  write, 
such  an  unnecessary  lie?" 

"Some  things  are  easier  to  do  than  to  explain," 
Forttmata  observed,  choosing  some  blush  roses  to 
wear  at  her  girdle. 

"Well,  of  course,"  the  Princess  whispered,  with 
meaning,  "if  this  one  is  worth  more  than  the  old 
one — besides,  I  think  you've  earned  a  holiday." 
And  she  worked  her  eyebrows  up  and  down,  looking 
under  her  scarlet  hood  like  Mephistopheles. 

Meanwhile  Billford,  a  prey  to  mystification,  was 
searching  in  the  gravel  for  her  needle. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ON  the  twenty-ninth  of  May,  the  anniversary 
of  Ugo  Rivallo's  death,  his  widow  was  wont  to 
go  on  a  pilgrimage  to  his  grave. 

It  would  appear  that  a  fatality  hung  over  Fortu- 
nata's  mother,  preventing  her  ever  going  on  any 
expedition,  hampering  her  whenever  she  strove  to 
leave  the  Palazzo  even  for  the  shortest  drive.  Long 
before  the  given  time  for  the  departure,  she  would 
begin  to  dress  and  go  through  her  toilette  with  the 
melancholy  of  self-dedicated  sacrifice.  At  the  last 
moment  always  she  was  seized  with  a  presentiment: 

"Something  tells  me" — either  she  was  about  to 
trip  on  her  corset-lace  or  a  hook  was  in  imminent 
danger  of  coming  off.  To-day  the  curse  was  not 
lifted.  Helping  herself  to  the  salad-dressing,  she 
let  fall  on  her  lap  a  drop  of  oil.  The  Contessa  pict- 
ured herself  spotted  like  the  leopard.  Disconsolate, 
she  fled  to  her  room  to  uncork  the  benzine. 

"Since  mother  doesn't  want  the  carriage,  I  should 
like  to  drive,  Zia,"  said  Fortunata. 

The  Princess  gave  one  of  the  smiles  she  kept  re- 
served for  Fortunata  alone.  "The  victoria  is  yours, 
my  little  one." 

It  was  the  loveliest  of  afternoons.  "Fragoli!" 
cried  the  strawberry  -  venders.  The  Piazza  di 
Spagna  was  banked  with  flowers.     Suddenly  on  the 

155 


FORTUNATA 

steps  across  the  square  Fortunata  saw  a  tall  figure, 
and  something  took  her  at  the  throat. 

"Stop,  Gaspare!"  she  cried  to  the  coachman. 

"Lord  Trevers!"  She  bent  out  of  the  carriage. 
The  yoimg  man  turned  and  came  to  her. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  beside  the  carriage, 
bareheaded  in  the  sunshine,  thinking  of  something 
to  say. 

Big,  handsome  brute,  she  thought,  and  her  heart 
warmed  to  him.  "I  have  a  suggestion  for  the  boat 
club." 

"Yes?"  Never  once  did  he  assume  the  con- 
ventional smile  of  delighted  surprise. 

"Will  you  take  a  drive  with  me?" 

"If  you  like,"  he  answered,  in  the  voice  that 
made  her  feel  sadly  unattractive. 

He  stepped  into  the  carriage  and  sat  down  by 
her  side.  He  had  come  to  tea  the  day  before — she 
had  asked  him.  She  was  conscious  of  somehow 
having  failed  to  draw  him  to  her.  Other  men  had 
dropped  in,  suitors  and  ex-suitors.  She  had  been 
led  away  to  talk,  to  be  amusing.  She  had  been  dis- 
tracted from  the  role  of  the  gentle,  sweet  girl  which 
she  had  assumed  for  Lord  Trevers.  He  distrusted 
her,  and  she  knew  it.  He  had  been  brought  up 
to  believe  that  every  woman  was  determined  to 
marry  him.  His  taste  was  simple;  he  liked  big, 
buxom  women  whose  stride  could  keep  time  with  a 
man's,  who  were  built  to  weather  all  inclemencies. 
Fortimata  was  subtle,  too  fine,  too  mysterious;  he 
could  not  appreciate  her.  Besides,  he  admired  in 
a  woman  those  sterling,  old-fashioned  virtues — 
modesty,  honor,  and  truth.     He  had  heard  Fortu- 

156 


FORTUNATA 

nata  lightly  named,  with  a  shrug,  with  a  half-smile. 
He  told  himself  she  could  not  be  a  very  nice  girl — 
that  was  the  phrase  he  used — to  contemplate  even 
for  a  moment  marrying  a  wretched  roue  sunk  in  age 
and  dissipation.  His  heart  told  him,  although  his 
vocabulary  could  never  have  furnished  the  words, 
that  the  Signorina  Rivallo  was  ambitious  hollow, 
crafty,  false. 

Fortunata  had  read  this  from  the  first  look  in  his 
eyes.  She  worked  to  counteract  this  preconceived 
impression.  She  was  simple,  sisterly,  a  genial  friend. 
Flirtatious — never,  God  forbid! — somewhat  grave, 
at  moments  preoccupied. 

"To  the  Pincio,  Gaspare!" 

Did  Lord  Trevers  think  it  strange  that  they  should 
drive  side  by  side  in  the  face  of  the  world?  She 
glanced  at  him,  but  could  tell  nothing  from  his  pro- 
file, somewhat  stem  and  yet  material.  The  move 
was  intentional.  All  the  Pincio  would  see  them. 
His  name  would  be  linked  with  hers.  Gossip  some- 
times engenders  the  very  event  it  rumors.  She 
spoke  of  the  boat  club,  suggesting,  listening,  all  at- 
tention and  intelligence.  He  was  led  away  to  talk, 
reassured  by  her  quiet  manner,  her  sincere  eyes  that 
met  his  without  a  spark  of  flirtatious  fire. 

Up  and  down  the  Pincio  they  drove,  among  the 
prancing  cavaliers  who,  proud  of  their  buckskin 
breeches  and  patent-leather  boots,  exhilarated  by 
the  sense  of  costume,  the  semblance  of  disguise, 
made  their  horses  cavort,  and  ogled  the  women. 
The  signore  lay  back  in  their  carriages,  looking  in 
the  eyes  of  the  men  with  a  cool  steadiness  that  was 
almost  oriental. 

157 


FORTUNATA 

*'I  should  like  to  buy  a  hat,"  said  Fortunata. 
Their  carriage  was  skirting  the  hill.  Below  them 
swayed  the  dense  foliage  of  the  Borghese  Gardens. 
"Come  with  me  and  help  me  choose." 

"I  must  not  take  up  any  more  of  your  after- 
noon." 

"But  I  want  you  to  help  me.  You  have  taste. 
To  Madame  Cabriolet's,  Gaspare.  You  will  come? 
Thank  you." 

Richard  felt  a  sudden  confidence,  almost  a  sense 
of  intimacy.  "I  sometimes  choose  my  mother's 
hats,  Signorina,"  he  told  her. 

At  this  hour  the  Corso  was  feverishly  gay.  Trem- 
bling, bounding  over  the  stones,  the  bottt  passed  at 
a  desperate  rate;  the  cochieri,  flapping  their  reins, 
cried,  "Aye,  aye,  avanti!"  The  trams,  blatantly  out 
of  place,  passed  screeching  on  their  rails.  La  Tri- 
huna!  La  Voce  del  Po  polo  I  L'Osservatore  Romano! 
cried  the  paper-venders,  ragged  and  brown  and  im- 
pudent, and  all  the  bells  were  carolling  to  mass. 
Before  the  fashionable  shops  were  lined  up  victorias, 
barouches,  coupes.  The  nobility  were  gone  in  to 
buy;  the  coachmen  sat  on  impassive  in  the  dust, 
cockaded  and  weighted  with  bands  of  gold. 

In  making  Lord  Trevers  come  with  her,  Fortunata 
had  an  object.  For  the  last  years  the  doors  of 
Madame  Cabriolet's  had  been  closed  to  her.  The 
modiste  demanded  to  see  Fortunata's  money  before 
seeing  her  face  again.  The  Contessina  had  an  early 
acquaintance  with  debt,  she  had  been  prematurely 
trained  to  live  well  and  spend  nothing.  Now,  when 
she  chose  to  buy,  she  took  with  her  a  man  of  un- 
doubted wealth,  who  made  a  background  for  her, 

158 


FORTUNATA 

gave  her  an  air  of  solidity,  as  it  were.  Madame 
Cabriolet  proved  most  urbane. 

"A  hat,  Madame  ?"  And  Fortunata,  standing  be- 
fore the  glass,  buried  her  head  in  the  reverse  scrap- 
baskets  then  the  fashion.  To  Lord  Trevers  she 
would  say:   "Do  you  think  this  one  is  pretty?" 

And  he  would  answer,  "Yes,  most  awfully,"  or 
"No,  it's  a  rotter." 

"What  color  do  you  like  best?"  she  asked  him. 

"Blue,  light  pale  blue,"  courageously  he  told  her. 

"Show  me  all  your  light-blue  hats.  Mademoiselle 
Germaine."  And  as  she  tried  them  on,  "Keep  this 
one  for  a  moment,  Lord  Trevers,"  she  would  say. 

He  laid  his  high  hat  down  on  the  table,  and  grave- 
ly, unconsciously  took  a  panama  or  leghorn  into 
his  hands,  holding  it  carefully,  almost  tenderly,  as 
one  might  hold  a  child.  And  suddenly,  "That  is  a 
stunner!"  he  cried,  moved  by  imperative  admiration. 

"I  like  it,  too,"  she  admitted.  Looking-glass  in 
hand  she  turned  to  catch  another  view.  She  un- 
dulated with  the  rhythm  of  a  dancer.  "I  shall  take 
this  hat.  You  may  charge  it.  I  have  a  bill  here." 
And  the  Contessina  looked  hard  at  Mademoiselle 
Germaine. 

"  Parfaitement ." 

Richard  helped  Fortunata  into  the  carriage.  He 
was  warming  toward  her.  He  felt  confident,  inti- 
mate, at  rest.  He  laid  the  rug  over  her  knees.  "Are 
you  comfy?"  he  asked. 

"Thank  you,  I  am  comfortable,"  she  answered, 
almost  with  reproach.  She  disapproved  of  these 
abbreviations  from  a  big,  healthy,  grown-up  man. 

The  air  was  soft  as  a  caress,  enveloping,  enam- 
159 


FORTUNATA 

oured.  Every  passer-by  seemed  hurrying  to  a  love 
tryst.  The  men  brushed  past  the  women  murmur- 
ing, "Che  bella,  che  sympathica!"  and  the  signore 
came  driving  from  the  Pincio,  lolHng  back  languidly, 
conscious  of  being  admired,  of  being  desired.  A 
school  of  young  girls  went  past,  walking  two  and 
two,  holding. their  heads  erect  with  a  certain  virginal 
primness,  not  lacking  in  charm.  They  passed  with 
downcast  eyes  that  were  supposed  to  be  as  yet  un- 
enlightened. She  was  silent  as  they  drove  home. 
Richard  was  telling  her  of  Stock-on-Tremp,  his  place 
in  Wiltshire;  of  his  horses  and  dogs;  his  mother  and 
sisters.  In  fancy  Fortunata  saw  the  village,  the 
cottages  with  low-hanging  eaves,  thatched  in  straw; 
the  glorious  English  park;  the  pew  at  church, 
panelled  in  oak,  brass-railed,  curtained  with  red,  and, 
finally,  a  home  such  as  one  never  finds  in  Italy — 
blazing  fires,  every  comfort,  yet  the  charm  of  years. 
She  listened,  her  head  averted;  a  strand  of  hair,  a 
curl  loosened  from  the  rest,  fluttered  against  her 
temple,  tickling,  caressing. 

The  Colibri's  roans  stamped  into  the  court  of 
the  Palazzo.  As  they  drew  up  before  the  steps  the 
echoes  reverberated. 

Fortimata  gave  Lord  Trevers  her  hand.  She 
looked  at  him  directly  in  the  eyes.  Her  own,  all 
pupil,  circled  like  a  cat's  with  brown  and  gold, 
astonished  him;  his  heart  gave  a  double  knock. 
Suddenly  she  lowered  her  glance. 

Something  took  him  at  the  throat,  and  he  forgot 
to  speak.  She  drew  her  hand  out  of  his.  It  slipped 
through  his  fingers,  hardly  returning  their  pressure. 
"Shall  my  man  drive  you  home?" 

160 


FORTUNATA 

*'0h,  thanks,  no!" 

She  sprang  up  the  steps;  the  door  was  open; 
Nello  stood  on  the  threshold.  Fortunata  said  a  few 
quick  words  to  him,  and  with  a  thrill  of  laughter  she 
passed  into  the  hall  that  showed  as  black  as  a  tunnel. 
The  old  servant  looked  after  her  kindly. 

Love  is  bom  in  a  glance,  in  a  turn  of  the  head. 
It  can  be  caught  like  a  contagious  fever  in  a  second. 
Lord  Trevers  was  the  least  sensitive  of  men,  the 
last  to  be  a  prey  to  moods.  Only  sad  when  he  had 
a  sorrow,  only  lonely  when  he  was  alone,  yet  now 
he  was  overtaken  with  a  melancholy  as  inexplicable 
as  it  was  abject.  Somehow,  he  felt  as  though  he 
had  been  deserted,  as  though  something  had  been 
taken  from  him.  All  the  afternoon  he  had  had  at 
his  side  a  warm,  sensible,  responsive  presence — a  girl 
who  seemed  to  trust  him,  to  rely  on  him — who  some- 
how gave  the  impression  that  she  thought  of  him 
when  he  was  not  with  her.  Yet  in  a  moment,  at  the 
sight  of  her  home,  her  open  door,  he  had  ceased  to 
exist  for  her. 

"Coco!"  cried  a  harsh  yet  fatuous  voice,  and 
Richard,  looking  up,  caught  sight  of  the  Colibri's 
parrot,  squatting  on  the  outside  of  one  of  the  lower 
windows.  The  bird  was  chained  by  the  leg  to  the 
iron  fretwork.  Having  attracted  Richard's  atten- 
tion. Coco  began  to  show  off,  waddling  the  length 
of  the  sill,  turning  in  his  toes  with  the  gayety  of  an 
old  buffoon. 

"Pretty  Polly!"  cried  Richard,  all  abstraction. 

The  bird  stood  still,  and  fixed  Lord  Trevers 
through  and  through — pierced  him,  held  him,  with 
a  cold,  ironic  stare.  Somehow,  Dick  was  reminded 
II  i6i 


FORTUNATA 

of  the  Colibri.  Coco's  pupils  kept  contracting  and 
expanding  with  a  monotonous  regularity.  The  bird's 
scrutiny  abashed  Lord  Trevers,  and  he  strode  from 
the  court.  A  sense  of  void  encompassed  him,  the 
streets  and  buildings  seemed  strange. 

It's  a  crime,  he  thought — one  might  as  well  sell 
a  girl  at  auction.  Foreign  women  have  no  show. 
They'd  be  all  right,  some  of  them,  if  they'd  been 
brought  up  in  England. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BON  soir,  Mademoiselle." 
In  one  of  the  smaller  rooms  giving  off  the 
sala  after  dinner,    Monsieur  de   la  Tour   Bichelle 
bowed  over  Fortunata's  hand. 

She  caught  the  scrutiny  of  his  wise  little  eyes — 
a  look  suspicious,  uneasy.  As  night  after  night  they 
sat  down  facing  each  other,  on  either  side  of  a  con- 
sole table,  the  Contessina  crossed  her  hands  over 
the  chilly  marble  top.  A  candle  burned  between 
them,  its  flame  shooting  up.  It  seemed  to  Fortu- 
nata's fancy  to  stretch  with  boredom.  Antonia  had 
offered  herself  as  the  duenna.  Don  Luigi  was  will- 
ing to  see  them  through  the  evening.  The  chap- 
erones  withdrew  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
to  their  favorite  bench  set  in  a  window  giving 
on  the  garden.  Shoulder  to  shoulder,  they  watched 
something  broad  and  silvery  moving  low  down 
among  the  trees,  and  knew  that  the  moon  had 
risen. 

The  Prince  leaned  over  the  table.  His  smile  was 
bewitching,  but  not  too  insidious — "arch,"  he  called 
it,  as  became  a  gentleman  in  the  company  of  a  jeune 
fille.  His  voice  seemed  to  her  to  come  from  far  off. 
He  cleared  his  throat.  The  sound  was  ominous, 
determination  being  scraped  together.  He  has  some- 
thing disagreeable  to  say,  she  thought. 

163 


FORTUNATA 

"An  hour  ago,  Mademoiselle" — ^he  spoke  with  an 
effort — "the  Comte  de  Brillac  told  me  he  had  seen 
you  this  afternoon  on  the  Pincio  with  a  young  man, 
unchaperoned." 

"Yes?" 

She  had  risen  and  was  standing  before  the  hearth. 

"Permit  me  to  tell  you  that  such  conduct  is  not 
well  looked  on  in  France." 

"But  we  are  not  in  France." 

"That  is  true" — a  spot  of  red  flaming  in  either 
cheek.  What  with  the  newness  of  his  wig,  the  color 
gave  him  the  air  of  a  dreadful  little  doll.  "We  are 
in  Italy;  we  are  in  Rome,  where  scandal  breeds  in  a 
breath  and  grows  on  a  nothing — a  nothing."  Each 
time  he  repeated  the  word  he  thrust  out  his  chin, 
his  lids  palpitated,  beating  his  eyeballs. 

"You  forget,  Monsieur,  I  am  an  Italian.  I  have 
lived  my  life  in  Rome.     I  know  all  this." 

"And  the  convenances,  do  you  not  count  them?" 

"No,  not  in  your  sense.  If  by  convenances  you 
mean  the  necessity  of  a  spy  always  at  a  girl's  side, 
the  reputation  that  is  kept  by  watching  might  as 
well  be  lost." 

"This  is  not  the  conversation  of  a  jeime  fiUe. 
You  are  engaged.  Mademoiselle,  although  you  seem 
to  choose  to  forget  it.  We  are  not  among  savages! 
We  are  not  among  Americans!  A  young  girl  is 
chaperoned  in  civilized  countries.  She  doesn't  drive 
out  all  the  afternoon,  who  knows  where,  alone  with 
a  young  man — no,  not  even  if  he  is  an  English- 
man!" He  wagged  his  finger  at  her,  jibbering  like 
an  ape. 

Her  aesthetic  sense  was  shocked.  Only  a  very 
164 


FORTUNATA 

young  face  can  stand  the  disfiguring  violence  of 
passion.  What  an  object!  she  thought,  and  her 
glance  ran  up  and  down  him,  scorching  him. 

"Madonna  mia!  But  you  are  very  angry!  You 
see,  already  we  cannot  agree.  You  are  free,  Mon- 
sieur!" She  flung  her  arm  toward  the  window, 
toward  the  lovers,  whose  silhouettes  showed  close 
together  in  the  dim  radiance  of  the  moon. 

Immediately  he  was  afraid — the  future,  life,  his 
very  breath  seemed  leaving  him.  He  held  out  his 
arms:   "Ah!  ma  Fortune!"  he  whimpered. 

"The  man  I  marry,"  she  said,  more  calmly,  "must 
trust  me." 

"Mais  si!    Mais  si!" 

"Believe  in  me.  Have  no  more  evil  thought  of 
me  than  the  Madonna."  She  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  all  her  Italian  blood  astir  in  her. 

"I  promise  you — I  swear  it!  Forgive  me!"  he 
mumbled,  humble,  incoherent. 

'  *  Very  well,  for  this  once.  I  am  very  tired,  Prince ; 
will  you  excuse  me?  Good-night."  She  did  not 
offer  him  her  hand,  but  bowed,  looking  at  him  in- 
tently. She  pushed  aside  the  portiere  against 
which  she  was  standing,  stepped  back,  the  heavy 
folds  fell  into  place,  and  she  was  gone! 

The  Prince's  eyes  filled  with  self-pity. 

"  I  am  an  imbecile!"  He  stared  forlornly  at  the 
curtain  that  still  trembled  with  her  going. 

"Good-night,  Marquise.     Good-night,  Monsieur." 

The  chaperones  gave  no  answer — they  had  for- 
gotten him. 

Against  the  luminous  strip  that  marked  the  open 
window  their  profiles  were  defined,  turned  toward 

i6s 


FORTUNATA 

each  other.  They  were  silent  in  the  thrilHng 
ecstasy  of  nearness. 

Fortunata  saw  Lord  Trevers  at  balls,  dinners, 
theatre-parties.  He  said,  "How  do  you  do,"  and 
"Good-bye."  He  never  called,  never  asked  her  to 
dance;  he  spoke  only  of  the  weather,  yet  her  in- 
stinct told  her — a  sort  of  second  sight — that  his  heart 
was  changed  to  her.  Where  she  was,  he  came, 
though  never  directly.  He  talked  to  her  through 
others,  as  it  were.  If  he  had  a  joke  to  tell,  he  told 
it  to  some  one  opposite  her  that  she  might  hear. 
They  passed  on  the  Pincio  and  he  bowed  without  a 
smile,  but  he  made  his  horse  cavort;  he  showed  off 
for  her,  he  by  nature  the  most  unconscious  of  men. 
Little  by  little  her  manner  toward  him  changed, 
even  though  she  talked  of  the  advance  of  the  sea- 
son, the  poor  system  of  heating  in  Rome,  the  un- 
sanitary drainage,  the  consolidated  railroads.  She 
grew  more  feminine,  more  personal,  but  whatever 
progress  she  might  have  made,  for  the  moment  her 
hands  were  tied.  Monsieur  de  la  Tour  Bichelle  was 
a  millstone  about  her  neck.  Her  aunt,  she  thought, 
had  influenced  her  too  much.  The  Colibri's  talk  of 
pearls,  of  French  chdteaux,  had  turned  her  head. 
The  Princess  could  not  be  expected  to  see  that  old 
man  had  the  face  of  a  gargoyle.  "It  must  be  nice  to 
have  a  husband  one  could  be  proud  of,  to  walk  by 
one's  side,  to  show,"  she  told  herself.  "A  foil  is  all 
very  well,  but  I  should  like  to  marry  a  man  that 
other  women  would  find  handsome." 

As  the  spring  waned,  sometimes,  very  rarely, 
Richard  came  to  call.  He  sat  solemn  and  unenter- 
taining,  his  hat  in  one  hand,  his  stick  in  the  other. 

1 66 


FORTUNATA 

He  rarely  looked  at  Fortunata,  and  all  he  said  was 
"Ah!"  or  "er,"  in  a  big  voice.  One  afternoon  he 
stayed  until  the  sun  went  down.  Monsieur  de  la 
Tour  Bichelle  had  not  come,  nor  Fortunata's  other 
friends,  whom  Lord  Trevers  had  grown  to  hate. 
They  were  on  the  balcony,  he  and  she,  looking  out 
across  the  garden.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  say 
good-bye.     She  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

"You  must  stay  to  dinner.  The  Colibri  would  be 
delighted,  she  likes  you." 

He  accepted  with  a  sense  of  guilt.  They  grew 
silent.  A  sudden  gloom  had  overtaken  him.  Lean- 
ing against  the  balustrade  she  looked  from  under 
straight  brows  across  the  darkening  garden.  One 
foot  was  flung  out  behind  her,  the  arched  instep  and 
high  heel  turned  up  almost  with  insolence.  This 
evening  she  was  dressed  simply,  yet  her  native 
attraction,  the  supple  lines  of  her  body,  the  grace 
of  her  attitude  gave  her,  as  always,  a  singular  dis- 
tinction. So  penetrating  was  her  physical  charm, 
the  woman  spoke  in  her  so  strongly,  that  what  she 
chose  to  wear  was  of  little  account.  Her  skirt  hung  in 
soft  folds  over  exaggeratedly  narrow  hips.  The  open 
lacework  of  her  blouse  showed  glimpses  of  ribbon. 
Through  the  embroidered  collar  glinted  her  young 
neck  and  shoulders.  A  faint  fragrance  emanated 
from  her  like  the  perfume  which  the  sun  draws  from 
the  heliotrope.  A  wave  of  tenderness  submerged 
the  unsusceptible  Richard,  a  poignant  emotion,  not 
untouched  by  melancholy,  bom  of  the  sweetness  of 
the  evening  and  the  girl's  troubling  nearness.  He 
drew  closer,  brushing  her  wrist  as  though  inad- 
vertently with  his  hand.     She  did  not  seem  to  feel 

167 


FORTUNATA 

his  touch,  no  conscious  look  shot  into  her  eyes. 
The  rapid  approach  of  the  night  held  her  apparently 
enthralled. 

Charming  girl!  thought  Dick,  as  he  walked 
through  the  court,  and  in  fancy  he  heard  again  the 
careful,  pretty  English — the  correct  English  of  a 
foreigner,  a  voice  with  musical  breaks.  The  stars 
were  on  their  pilgrimage;   it  was  a  majestic  night. 

A  week  later  the  English  Ambassador  gave  a  ball. 
Lord  Trevers  stood  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window, 
watching,  when  Fortunata  passed,  waltzing  lan- 
guidly in  her  partner's  embrace — dissatisfying  sight. 
Trevers  thought  her  too  much  denuded  of  her 
bodice,  her  mode  of  dancing  significant.  In  his 
heart  he  had  already  appropriated  her.  He  was 
disappointed,  disillusioned,  and  yet  she  did  not 
seem  vulgar.  She  had  nothing  of  that  buoyant 
desire  to  excite.  Indifferent,  she  moved  among  the 
redder,  more  dishevelled  dancers,  and  in  her  very 
elegance  lay  the  something  suggestive.  Dick  was 
thoroughly  annoyed.  He  determined  to  punish  her 
and  not  to  go  near  her.  She  passed,  of  his  presence 
seemingly  unconscious.  Again  she  was  near,  and 
now,  whether  inadvertently  or  of  a  purpose,  her 
glance  met  his.  For  a  moment  her  look  searched 
his  eyes.  She  gave  no  sign  of  recognition.  The 
next  measure  turned  her  slim  back  toward  him,  her 
narrow  waist  half -hidden  by  her  partner's  hand. 
The  waltz  succeeding  had  trills — cadences — which 
would  have  stirred  St.  Anthony. 

"Will  you  dance,  Contessina?"  Lord  Trevers  stern- 
ly asked  of  Fortunata. 

They  waltzed  together.  Like  all  Britons,  when 
1 68 


FORTUNATA 

dancing,  he  preserved  a  decent  melancholy.  She 
liked  his  arm  around  her,  his  strength,  his  youth. 
She  forgot  her  fiance,  the  dreary  old  husk.  The 
waltz  came  to  an  end.  Lord  Trevers  led  her  to 
the  stairs,  and  on  the  steps  they  sat,  side  by  side. 
He  stretched  out  his  long  legs,  his  never-ending 
feet.  He  looked  away  from  her  down  into  the 
hall.  A  quadrille  was  begun.  The  Italians  pir- 
ouetted after  their  fashion.  She  talked  in  her 
prettiest  English.  He  answered  in  monosyllables, 
seemingly  abstracted,  taciturn.  She  glanced  at  his 
gloomy  profile,  recognized  his  expression,  triumph 
ran  in  her  blood,  and  she  said  to  herself:  I  can 
make  him  love  me! 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  without  prel- 
ude, "When  are  you  to  be  married?"  he  asked. 

"In  June." 

"In  England  they  say  that  that  is  a  lucky  month. 
Are  you  superstitious?" 

"No,  but  careful." 

"Shall  you  Hve  in  Italy?"    - 

"No,  France." 

"Will  you  be  happy  there?" 

"Happy,  that's  a  big  word." 

And  even  as  she  spoke,  Monsieur  de  la  Tour 
Bichelle  passed  through  the  hall.  He  wore  the 
legion  of  honor  and  the  order  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 
for  it  was  an  evening  for  full  regalia.  His  smalls 
betrayed  the  size  of  the  spindles  to  which  he  had 
the  courage  to  trust  his  weight. 

The  two  young  people  were  silent.  Richard 
looked  into  space.  Fortunata  leaned  her  forehead 
on  the  banister,  the  breeze  made  by  the  dancers 

169 


FORTUNATA 

stirred  her  hair,  the  violins  kept  up  an  amorous 
wailing. 

The  Princess  Colibri's  bedroom  was  hung  with 
draperies  representing  the  discovery  of  the  sleeping 
"Endymion"  by  Diana.  In  full  limary  splendor, 
against  a  background  of  sombre  forest  of  green  and 
tawny  brown,  the  long-limbed  goddess,  followed  at 
a  distance  by  her  court,  was  seen  coming  lightly 
across  the  grass.  The  huntress  held  in  one  hand 
a  spear,  and  in  her  steps  strode  a  lean  greyhound. 
She  was  of  an  effulgent  whiteness,  while  in  the  dusky 
wood  her  nymphs  shone  like  pearls. 

To-night  the  Colibri's  room,  seen  by  the  hanging- 
lamp,  was  filled  with  vacillating  shadows.  Built  on 
the  roof  of  the  Palazzo  Colibri,  early  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  this  study  had  served  at  one  time 
for  the  contemplation  of  the  stars  and  the  drawing 
of  horoscopes.  Now  a  carved  ceiling  blotted  out 
the  sky.  Still  the  room  was  of  its  kind  distinctive, 
in  shape  octagonal,and  panelled  in  dark  wood.  The 
furniture  was  of  every  cotmtry,  every  period,  squat, 
or  spindle-shanked.  The  tables  were  strewn  with 
antiquities  and  depressing  relics,  and  presented  the 
uneasy,  overburdened  aspect  peculiar  to  curiosity 
shops.  The  writing-table  was  a  chaos  of  papers, 
books,  torn  letters,  and  bits  of  sealing-wax;  while 
above,  defined  against  the  black  panels,  hung  a 
cross  of  palest  ivory,  from  which  drooped  a  melan- 
choly Christ. 

The  Princess  sat  at  her  desk.  She  was  still  in  her 
full  regalia  of  feathers,  but  had  removed  her  jewels. 
Necklace,  bracelets,  and  earrings  lay  in  an  inter- 

170 


FORTUNATA 

woven  mass,  gleaming  in  the  lamplight.  The  Coli- 
bri  was  reading,  yet  it  was  apparent  from  the  way 
in  which,  at  the  least  noise,  her  keen  but  heavy- 
lidded  eyes  turned  toward  the  door,  that  she  was 
more  intent  on  listening  for  a  sound,  a  footstep. 
The  wind  screamed  in  the  chimneys  and,  whistling 
under  the  Princess's  door,  swelled  the  carpet  in  un- 
canny fashion. 

A  light  step  came  up  the  stair.  "Fortunata!" 
called  the  Colibri. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  young  girl  stood  smiling 
on  the  threshold. 

The  Princess  spoke:  "Come  in.  Close  the  door. 
Fortunata,  a  rich  man  has  the  privilege  of  being 
ugly,  but  de  la  Tour  Bichelle  abuses  it." 

Fortunata  nodded  her  agreement. 

"Really,  he  is  unusually  plain." 

"Unusually." 

"Personally,  I  find  him  most  tiresome." 

"So  do  I,  most." 

"Then  why  do  you  marry  him?" 

Fortunata  was  so  startled  as  to  cast  up  her  eyes, 
alight  with  a  wild  innocence. 

"  It  was  never  his  beauty  that  attracted  you. 
Suppose,  then,  that  a  man,  young  and  handsome, 
with  even  more  brilliant  prospects — " 

"Richard  Trevers,"  said  Fortunata,  blandly. 

"I  like  a  mind  that  from  a  few  words  understands. 
My  niece,  break  off  with  this  antiquated  bore." 

"But,"  protested  Fortunata,  "now  that  things 
have  gone  so  far,  what  possible  reason  can  I  give?" 

"What  excuse  do  you  need,  since  a  more  ac- 
ceptable match  presents  itself?" 

171 


FORTUNATA 

"How  can  I  tell  him  that?  It  would  be  so  tact- 
less." 

"Say  that,  now  your  eyes  are  opened,  you  see 
you  do  not  love  him;  that  without  love  no  marriage 
is  valid." 

"Somehow,  I  hate  to  do  it,  tiresome  as  he  is." 

"Upon  my  word,  Fortunata,  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
understand  your  attitude.  We  were  bom  to  at- 
tain, to  climb,  and  work.  Nothing  is  worth  having 
that  costs  no  pain.  It's  lucky  for  us  when  the  pain 
is  somebody  else's.  We  must  break  many  a  friend- 
ship and  make  many  a  wound  before  we  can  hope 
to  succeed." 

All  transforming  is  the  perversity  that  can  gain 
upon  the  heart.  The  Princess  gave  her  rendering 
of  the  word  duty,  and  nothing  could  be  more  im- 
pressive than  her  delivery.  Singular  are  the  forms 
that  duty  can  be  made  to  assume.  Hardly  had 
Fortunata  listened  half  an  hour  to  this  harangue 
before  she  was  assured  that  her  happiness — nay,  her 
conscience — called  on  her  to  break  with  her  ancient 
fianc^. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WITH  a  harsh  squeak  the  Cohbri's  chair  grated 
back.  She  rose  from  the  table;  the  others 
imitated  her,  all  but  Fortunata,  who  would  not 
forego  her  coffee. 

Eugenio  lurched  slightly  as  he  crossed  the  floor. 

"Two  glasses  of  vino  rosso  and  he  can't  walk 
straight,"  said  the  Princess,  looking  after  him. 
"Ah,  his  poor  father  would  have  been  ashamed. 
Ugo  had  the  best  head  in  Rome."  And  her  Ex- 
cellency sighed  with  genuine  regret.  "Luigi,  take 
Antonia  to  walk  in  the  garden;  the  air  will  do  her 
good.  She  is  as  yellow  as  a  quince.  Come,  Guido." 
And  the  Colibri  passed  out  of  the  room  leaning  on 
Dacampagna's  arm. 

A  window  faced  Fortunata;  it  was  unshuttered, 
and  gave  her  a  view  of  the  open  sky.  She  watched 
the  moon,  shaped  like  a  sickle,  rise  white  as  steel 
in  the  heaven.  The  crescent  gave  out  a  severe, 
chill  radiance.  The  houses  opposite  showed  like 
lumpy  monsters,  much  behumped. 

"Contessina,  a  visitor." 

She  was  startled,  and  turned  to  find  Nello  stand- 
ing by  her  side.  She  glanced  at  the  bit  of  card- 
board and  read  * '  Lord  Trevers."  Her  heart  skipped 
a  beat. 

"Show  Lord  Trevers  into  the  sala,  Nello.*! 
173 


FORTUNATA 

"Scusi,  Siguorina,  but  her  Excellency  and  the 
Signer  Marchese  are  talking  affairs.  Her  Excellency 
thought  possibly  the  Contessina  might — " 

"Very  well,  ask  Lord  Trevers  to  come  here." 

She  looked  after  Nello  with  a  seraphic  smile.  She 
was  so  happy,  so  imbecilely  happy,  that  she  could 
have  found  it  in  her  heart  to  run  after  the  old  ser- 
vant and  shake  him  by  both  hands. 

"I  am  early;  you  haven't  finished  dinner." 

Dick  Trevers' s  voice  boomed  out  of  the  shadows 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  vast,  dim  room.  She 
turned  her  face  toward  him. 

"I  can't  see  you;  come  here  and  talk  to  me!"  she 
called,  laughing. 

He  was  near  her  in  an  instant,  as  though  he  had 
stepped  from  the  gobelin  tapestry  at  her  side.  She 
looked  up  at  him.  He  was  regarding  her  with  the 
light  in  his  eyes  she  liked,  his  blond  head  defined 
against  the  dark  hangings  and  sombre  panels  of  oak. 
Gravely  she  smiled  at  him,  purposely  avoiding  any 
touch  of  coquetry. 

"Have  some  coffee  with  me,"  she  said  in  her  vi- 
brant voice. 

"Er — thank  you,  I  have  dined." 

He  had  not  thought  to  face  the  siren  all  alone. 
A  foolish  panic  seized  him,  a  something  numbing  and 
ecstatic. 

"Er — the  fact  is,  I  wanted  to  see  the  Princess 
Colibri.  She  asked  me  to  bring  her  some  photos  I 
took  of  the  Matterhom." 

"What!  you  take  photographs?  You  are  the 
hardest  man  to  understand.  You  are  so  reserved 
that  only  bit  by  bit  one  finds  out  your  tastes." 

174 


FORTUNATA 

"You're  ma-making  game  of  me." 

"No,  never.  Now,  sit  down;  here  is  some  coffee. 
Yes,  you  must;  I  know  you  like  it." 

He  sat  down,  crossing  his  big  hands  on  the  edge 
of  the  table. 

"I'd  like  to  show  the  Princess — " 

"The  Princess  is  busy;  you  must  put  up  with  me 
for  the  moment,"  she  greeted  him.  She  gave  him 
a  sudden,  intimate  smile. 

The  undertow  was  taking  hold  of  him  again,  the 
tide  of  love,  of  desire.  He  found  nothing  to  say. 
He  watched  her,  and  at  that  moment  she  seemed 
to  him  the  most  adorable  woman  he  had  ever  seen; 
he  wondered  how  he  could  ever  have  thought  her 
anything  but  beautiful.  She  was  busy  with  the 
coffee;  she  measured  out  the  cognac  like  a  pretty 
witch  preparing  a  love-potion.  As  she  bent  her 
head  in  the  lamplight,  her  hair  glowed  like  satin, 
and  among  its  folds  nestled  her  ears,  pink  and 
delicate  like  roses. 

As  she  handed  him  his  cup  her  hand  brushed 
against  his  as  if  by  accident. 

' '  Show  me  the  pictures  of  the  Matterhom,"  she  said. 

He  obeyed,  glad  to  do  what  he  had  come  for. 
He  took  the  photographs  out  of  his  pocket,  spread- 
ing them  on  the  table. 

"What!  were  you  way  up  there?  I  should  never 
have  the  courage." 

He  took  her  at  her  word.  "A  woman  ought  to 
be  brave,"  he  said,  gravely.  "I  often  used  to  think 
when  I  was  looking  at  you,  'She's  got  lots  of  pluck, 
lots  of  grit.'  That's  one  of  the  things  I  liked  about 
you." 

175 


FORTUNATA 

"One  of  the  things  you  liked  about  me?"  she  re- 
peated softly.  "Why,  I  never  imagined  there  was 
anything  you  liked  about  me.  I  had  an  idea;  yes, 
I  really  did,  that  you  disliked  me." 

"I  did  rather,  at  first." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why?" 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  know." 

"You  were  used  to  being  flattered — yes,  you  know 
you  were.  You  are  the  kind  of  man  women  flatter. 
Now,  I  am  proud.  I  never  pay  a  man  a  compli- 
ment.    I  want  him  to  pay  them  to  me." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before ?"  He  spoke 
quite  seriously.     "I  can  give  you  lots." 

"When  I  met  you,"  she  answered,  her  voice 
charged  with  meaning,  '  *  I  had  no  right  to  have  any 
man  tell  me  pleasant  things."  She  looked  across 
into  the  shadow,  and  then  suddenly  said,  "Some- 
how, for  my  own  peace  of  mind,  I  wouldn't  have 
dared  to  listen  to  you." 

"Ah!"  he  answered,  in  deep  water. 

There  was  silence.  The  photographs  lay  before 
them,  the  tumblers  half-full  of  wine,  the  nut  husks 
and  fruit.  The  candles  had  burned  down ;  only  the 
lamp  gave  out  its  light. 

Fortunata  started  in  again.  "And  so  you  were 
up  there  on  that  little  white  peak  for  days  with 
only  a  guide?  How  lonely  it  must  have  been  up 
among  those  cold  mountains!" 

"It  was  jolly  cold,  I  can  tell  you." 

"I  sometimes  think  that  one  need  not  go  away 
off  among  the  mountains  to  be  lonely,"  she  vent- 
ured. After  a  pause:  "One  can  stay  at  home 
sometimes  for  that.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

176 


FORTUNATA 

"Yes,  if  one  doesn't  like  one's  people,"  he  an- 
swered, with  unusual  perception,  "Don't  you  like 
yours  ?"  He  had  the  indelicacy  as  well  as  the 
reserve  of  the  English.  She  gave  a  faint  smile, 
and  spread  out  her  hands  in  a  quick.  Southern 
gesture. 

"I  am  among  strangers — yes,  I  mean  it.  My 
mother  is  ill — as  for  the  Princess — well,  you  know 
her.  The  others  have  their  own  lives  to  think 
about.  That's  natural,  perhaps,  and  yet  I  am 
making  a  great  sacrifice  for  them.  I  don't  know 
why  I  tell  you  all  this,  unless  because  I  always  think 
of  you  as  a  friend.     Am  I  wrong?" 

"Perhaps — but  whatever  I  am,  I  think  of  you 
always." 

He  was  losing  his  head.     He  knew  it. 

"Yes,  I  am  giving  up  everything  for  them.  Am 
I  right  to  do  it  ?  I  don't  know.  I  want  to  ask  you ; 
I  will  do  what  you  say.  My  mother  is  poor;  Eugenio 
has  debts;  my  little  sister,  Francesca,  you  know, 
is  penniless."  (Pig,  she  thought,  to  lie  so!)  "Mon- 
sieur de  la  Tour  Bichelle  has  promised  to  help  all 
these  people,  but  it  is  hard  for  me."  For  the  mo- 
ment she  was  herself  deceived,  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.     "I  am  very  unhappy!" 

"Ah,  Fortunata!"  he  cried.  The  word  burst  from 
him  unconsciously.  She  was  aware  of  an  unac- 
countable pleasure  in  hearing  him  speak  her  name. 
She  bent  toward  him,  looking  into  his  eyes  with  a 
look  more  than  friendly. 

"You  will  tell  me  what  to  do,  my  friend." 

His  face  underwent  a  sudden  change.  He  took 
both  her  hands  in  his. 

12  177 


FORTUNATA 

"Your  hands  are  hot,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  queer 
voice. 

"And  yours,"  she  answered.  Her  eyes  still  looked 
into  his,  as  the  enchanted  ladies  must  have  looked 
at  Sir  Galahad  in  the  wood.  He  put  his  lips  to  her 
hands,  then  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"Signorina!"  The  sound  came  from  the  shadows 
behind  them.     They  started  apart. 

"Yes,  Nello?"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  that 
surprised  her. 

"His  Excellency,  the  Prince  de  la  Tour  Bichelle, 
has  waited  for  over  an  hour  in  the  sala.  His  Ex- 
cellency supplicates  the  Signorina  to  come  to  him, 
if  only  for  a  moment." 

She  grew  as  pale  as  though  she  had  heard  bad 
news. 

"Tell  his  Excellency  I  will  be  with  him  instantly." 

Lord  Trevers  rose.  "I  sha'n't  detain  you."  He 
was  as  red  as  she  was  pale. 

"Don't  go!"  she  murmured,  politely. 

"I  must.  Will  you  show  these  photographs  to 
your  aunt  for  me?" 

"Yes." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other,  abashed  and 
sad. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  with  an  effort. 

"A  rivederci!" 

He  held  the  portiere  back  for  her  to  pass  through, 
and  followed  her  into  the  hall.  There  stood  Nello 
with  a  light.  Fortunata  longed  to  strangle  the  old 
man;  instead,  she  passed  into  the  sala,  looking  as 
gentle  as  a  nun.  Lord  Trevers,  with  an  easy  stride, 
went  rapidly  down  the  stairs. 

178 


FORTUNATA 

"Ah,  my  dear  one!  My  little  Fortunata!  Ah, 
my  treasure!" 

De  la  Tour  Bichelle  was  whispering  over  Fortu- 
nata's  unresponsive  hand. 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  the  Contessina  said. 

He  drew  two  chairs  before  the  sculptured  hearth, 
and  down  they  sat,  she  as  bored  and  mysterious  as 
a  sphinx,  he  all  hunched  up  like  an  eager  gnome. 

Santinello  and  the  Princess  were  playing  at  chess. 
Guido  was  standing  by,  trying  to  look  as  though  he 
understood  the  game.  The  Cardinal  was  getting  the 
best  of  it.  His  fingers  seemed  to  have  eyes,  so 
knowingly  they  handled  the  chessmen. 

"Yes — no — yes,"  Fortunata  answered  her  fianc^. 
For  once  she  was  unable  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 

"I  admire,"  he  said  to  her,  "in  you  that  delicate, 
mysterious  languor  that  so  well  becomes  a  woman — " 

"Che  diavolo!"  The  Princess  was  beaten,  and 
with  a  backward  sweep  of  the  hand  she  brushed 
the  chessmen  from  the  board.  "You  must  all  go," 
she  said.     "I  am  tired." 

As  he  kissed  Fortunata' s  hand,  "Until  to-morrow, 
my  angel,"  the  Prince  murmured.  He  made  her 
Excellency  a  profound  bow.  "Where,  then,  is 
Madame  la  Contesse  and  that  dear  Marquise,  where 
is  she  that  one  may  press  her  hand?" 

To  the  amazement  of  all,  the  Colibri  burst  into  a 
loud  laugh,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  in  an  agony 
of  grotesque  mirth.  The  Prince,  who  stood  before 
her  making  his  adieux,  was  surprised,  confused,  at 
this  fit  of  uncouth  merriment. 

"Yes,  where  has  my  wife  been  all  this  evening?" 
Guido  asked. 

179 


FORTUNATA 

"The  Marchesa  has  no  doubt  retired,"  the  Car- 
dinal interposed  in  his  soothing,  sHppery  voice, 
"To-day  is  the  feast  of  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi,  Don 
Guido,  if  you  remember.  The  Marchesa  is  devout, 
too  conscientious,  I  sometimes  fear.  I  only  hope 
her  health  may  stand  the  stress  her  conscience  puts 
upon  it.  You  have  married  a  woman  of  rare  piety, 
Don  Guido." 

"Si,  Eminenza,"  Dacampagna  answered,  after  a 
pause.  His  face  was  sullen,  a  crafty  look  shot  into 
his  eyes,  and  he  added,  in  an  uncontrollable  burst 
of  violence,  "But  when  a  woman  is  too  good  she's 
not  easy  to  live  with." 

The  Princess  had  calmed  down ;  she  was  mopping 
her  eyes  and  giving  retrospective  sighs  and  sobs  of 
amusement. 

The  Cardinal  passed  out  of  the  room,  his  robes 
whispering  about  his  ankles. 

"Good-night,  Princess,"  murmured  Monsieur  de 
la  Tour  Bichelle  again,  and  with  exaggerated  chiv- 
alry, he  added,  "I  throw  my  head  at  your  feet." 

The  Colibri  was  bored  with  the  diffident  old  gen- 
tleman, and  called  after  his  retreating  figure,  "I 
throw  my  feet  at  your  head!" 

"Antonia!  Che  diavolo,  Antonia!"  Guido  was 
heard  in  the  hall,  calling  up  the  stairs. 

The  Colibri  went  to  the  window  that  gave  on  the 
garden  and  drew  aside  the  curtains.  High  in  a  black 
sky  the  moon  hung  as  delicate  and  iridescent  as  a 
jewel.  Fortunata  heard  her  whisper  to  herself,  like 
a  witch  communing  with  the  night. 

Eugenio  came  in  still  wearing  his  overcoat.  He 
dragged  himself  limply  across  the  floor.     He  went 

i8o 


FORTUNATA 

toward  the  hearth,  drawing  off  his  muffler  and 
coughing  a  Httle.  Fortunata  was  leaning  on  the 
mantel. 

"Fortunata,  she  hardly  spoke  to  me  to-night." 
And  he  stood  staring  at  the  fireplace. 

"You  are  shivering,"  his  sister  said  to  him. 

"It  is  cold,"  he  answered,  unconsciously  holding 
out  his  hands  toward  the  empty  hearth. 

"Madonna!  But  it's  freezing  for  May!"  agreed 
the  Princess.  "Fortunata,  to-night  Raoul's  teeth 
will  chatter  in  their  glass,"  Her  Excellency's  smile 
almost  closed  her  eyes.  "Pleasant  dreams,  my 
children!" 

The  Colibri  took  in  hand  a  candle,  drew  aside  a 
fold  of  tapestry,  opened  a  little  door  and  passed 
into  the  turret  staircase  that  led  to  her  study. 

Fortunata  and  Eugenio  were  left  in  semi-darkness 
listening  to  the  Colibri's  feet  feeling  their  way, 
creak,  creak.  The  steps  grew  muffled  and  passed 
out  of  hearing. 

"A  coarse  old  person,  our  aunt,"  observed 
Eugenio.     "Isn't  she  grotesque?" 

"Absolutely  gross,"  admitted  Fortunata. 

The  Contessina  was  not  unused  to  engaging  herself 
to  be  married  and  then  disengaging  herself.  There 
are  some  habits,  however,  to  which  we  cannot  grow 
accustomed,  and  Fortunata  passed  an  agitated  night. 

The  next  morning,  nervous  and  shattered,  she 
descended  just  as  the  Prince  de  la  Tour  Bichelle  was 
announced.  There  he  stood,  bowing  on  the  hearth- 
rug, grasping  a  bouquet  as  compact  as  a  cauli- 
flower, and  leering  like  a  dreadful  old  Bacchus. 
Fortunata,   all   in   black,   advanced  upon   her   be- 

i8i 


FORTUNATA 

trothed  with  a  melancholy  dignity  which  inspired 
the  beholder  with  a  premonition  of  ill. 

"Do  you  believe  in  dreams?"  she  asked,  in  the 
voice  of  a  sleepwalker, 

"Dreams?"  repeated  his  Excellency,  nervously, 

"Monsieur  de  la  Tour  Bichelle,"  cried  Fortunata, 
with  a  wild  look,  letting  herself  fall  into  a  chair,  "I 
must  ask  you  to  give  me  back  my  freedom.  I  am 
unworthy  of  you ;  forgive  me,  but  I  do  not  love  you. 
I  was  warned  last  night  in  a  dream.  I  should  be 
doing  you  an  injustice,  an  irretrievable  wrong. 
Profoundly  I  admire  your  talent,  your  wit,  your 
culture,  but  I  cannot  be  your  wife." 

"What  is  this — what  is  this,  ma  cherie  ?"  cried  the 
poor  old  thing,  skipping  forward  with  an  agitation 
painful  to  behold. 

"Here  is  your  ring.  Prince.  Do  not  think  me 
ungrateful.  You  are  my  dearest,  dearest  friend, 
and  always  shall  be — that  is,  if  you  will  let  me  call 
you  so." 

He  made  a  pretence  of  taking  the  ring,  and  tried 
to  retain  her  hand.  "You've  promised  yourself  to 
me,  and  I  will  not  let  you  escape  me!"  he  squeaked, 
with  so  diabolical  an  air  that  Fortimata  took  refuge 
behind  a  table. 

"A  marriage  without  love  would  be  to  me — " 

"But  I  love  you,  I  love  you!"  he  shrieked,  trip- 
ping after  her.  "I  will  give  you  everything,  ma 
mignonne!  Such  jewels — sapphires,  pearls,  rubies, 
like  your  mouth.  You  shall  be  more  f^ted,  more 
adored  than  any  woman  in  Paris.  Oh,  my  treas- 
ure, say  that  you  will !"  His  eyes  were  full  of  rheumy 
tears. 

182 


FORTUNATA 

"Prince,"  said  Fortunata,  with  dignity  from  over 
the  back  of  the  sofa,  "my  conscience,  my  heart — " 

At  this  moment  into  the  room  sailed  the  Princess, 
in  a  turban  nearly  as  large  as  a  life-preserver.  Her 
Excellency  was  buoyed  up  by  furbelows,  ruffles,  and 
voluminous  overskirts.  She  held  in  her  arms  the 
spaniel  Mimi,  caressing  the  little  beast's  sleek  head. 

"What,"  demanded  her  Excellency,  "are  you  play- 
ing at  tag,  Fortunata?" 

"Princess!  Princess!"  whimpered  the  doting  old 
man,  holding  out  his  shaking  hands,  one  of  which 
still  grasped  the  gay  bouquet,  sheathed  in  filigree 
paper — "she  won't  marry  me,  my  Fortunata  won't 
marry  me!"  Actually  he  shed  tears  of  senile  rage 
and  disappointment.  "Princess,"  he  pleaded,  "ap- 
peal to  her  ambition,  her  pride!  No  queen  shall  be 
more — " 

But  Fortunata  had  already  slipped  through  the 
door. 

The  old  dodderer  took  out  his  pocket-handker- 
chief. "Souvent  femme  varie,  but  how  have  I  of- 
fended her?  Than  yesterday  she  was  never  kinder 
— why  this  change,  why?" 

"Raoul,  you  are  old,  and  tears  do  not  become 
you." 

"I  do  not  comprehend  you,  Madame." 

"You  are  a  hideous  hobgoblin!"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, and  without  another  word  she  sailed  past  him 
and  was  gone.  Monsieur  de  la  Tour  Bichelle  was 
left  alone  in  his  dapper  waistcoat  and  subtly  shaded 
suit. 

"She  won't  want  this,"  he  said,  and  he  laid  the 
bouquet  in  the  waste-basket,  with  a  wheezy  little 

183 


FORTUNATA 

sigh.  It  seemed  a  pity,  for  the  roses  were  the 
lovehest  and  the  most  fragrant  that  the  ItaHan 
spring  could  create. 

From  her  window  Fortunata,  watching,  saw  a 
wizened,  a  very  old  gentleman,  his  hat  poised  from 
habit  at  a  glad  angle,  totter  dismally  across  the  pave- 
ment and  hide  himself  in  his  brougham.  In  spite 
of  herself,  her  heart  ached.  She  had  grown  attached 
to  the  Prince  as  one  might  to  something  very  old, 
incomprehensible,  and  frail — a  grandparent,  for  in- 
stance. 

It  soon  filtered  out  that  the  Signorina  Rivallo  had 
changed  her  mind  once  more.  Some  said  that  she 
could  not  stand  the  cackling  dotard;  others,  that 
he  had  found  her  to  be  a  jeune  fille  more  than 
originate.  The  few  who  understood  Fortunata  knew 
she  had  met  something  better.  Gossips  blew  in  to 
the  Palazzo  Colibri ;  the  Princess  proved  muter  than 
the  Sphinx.  Antonia  held  the  visitors'  hands  and 
told  them,  in  all  sincerity,  that  Fortunata's  heart 
could  not  be  bought.  The  visitors  said,  "Fortunata 
is  a  splendid  girl,"  but  they  knew  better.  As  for 
Fortunata's  mother,  she  took  her  pills  and  polished 
her  ear-trumpet  much  as  usual — the  engagement 
was  broken,  and  she  cried  rather  more  than  when  it 
was  first  announced. 

Lord  Trevers,  playing  billiards  at  the  club,  heard 
the  news.  The  balls  went  askew  and  he  was  beaten. 
Why  had  she  not  married  and  gone  out  of  his  life  ? 
Then  he  might  have  forgotten  her,  but  now —  In- 
decision, disquietude  possessed  him.  He  was  afraid 
to  decide.  On  the  one  hand  was  Stock-on-Tremp 
waiting  for  its  mistress — an  Englishwoman  and  of 

184 


FORTUNATA 

the  English  Church,  a  girl  whose  name  should  be  as 
clean  as  she  herself  was  young  and  innocent.  He 
thought  of  his  mother — proud,  stiff,  moulded  to  the 
honor  and  prejudices  of  her  race.  On  the  other 
hand  was  Fortunata!  To  give  her  up  was  as  easy 
as  to  hold  one's  breath  and  die. 

Fortunata  grew  disquieted.  She  had  proved  her- 
self free  to  be  won,  yet  Lord  Trevers  did  not  come 
impetuously  forward — in  fact,  did  not  come  forward 
at  all.  He  appeared  to  avoid  her,  passed  her  hastily, 
bowed  to  her  guiltily,  spoke  to  her  only  when  forced. 
Fortimata,  always  optimistic,  thought  in  his  manner 
to  read  confession  of  a  fatal  weakness.  The  Princess 
Colibri,  as  ever  imgenerous  and  inconsistent,  taunted 
her  niece.  She  quoted  the  English  proverb  to  the 
effect  that  a  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the 
bush.  Had  Fortunata  sought  to  justify  herself,  she 
might  have  answered,  "Who  advised  me  to  run  the 
risk?"  As  it  was,  she  merely  lowered  her  eyelids 
and  smiled  mysteriously.  The  Princess  was  reas- 
sured, and  brought  to  believe  that  her  niece  knew 
more  than  she  told.  Fortunata  was  mortified  secret- 
ly. She  had  staked  her  all,  and  apparently  lost. 
She  had  boasted  of  a  conquest,  and  had  not  come 
off  the  winner.  Should  she,  who  had  attracted  so 
many  useless  men,  let  Dick  Trevers,  possessed  of 
every  quality  ever  hoped  for  in  a  husband,  escape 
her?  Things  can't  drag  on  this  way,  thought  she. 
I  must  take  a  decisive  step.  I'll  go  away  to  Perugia. 
I'll  take  mother  with  me,  although  she  bores  me. 
I'll  be  gone  a  week,  and  then  he'll  see  how  he  likes 
Rome  without  me. 

The  next  day  she  was  gone,  hurrying  her  mother 
i8s 


FORTUNATA 

with  her.  The  Contessa  dreaded  travel,  loathed 
change,  regretted  the  walls  that  knew  her  pains  and 
aches,  but  was  carried  off  by  her  daughter's  in- 
domitable will. 

On  the  morrow  Richard  was  passing  through  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo,  his  head  above  the  crowd.  The 
sim  was  at  its  brightest,  the  flower-girls  ran  after 
him  calling  their  wares ;  of  themselves  his  feet  took 
the  via  Vittorio  Emanuele.  I  can't  call  on  her  now, 
he  thought  of  a  sudden — it  would  be  in  such  beastly- 
taste. 

Then  he  drew  himself  up  short. 

I  sha'n't  go  near  her  for  another  week. 

He  kept  his  word;  but  that  week,  like  the  week 
before  it,  was  hell.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
within  three  days,  on  Monday,  he  would  hear  from 
her.  She  might  ask  him  to  tea  to  thank  him  for  some 
books  he  had  loaned  her.  When  Wednesday  came, 
passed,  and  no  word  from  her,  he  was  taken  with  a 
sadness  disproportionate  to  its  cause.  Balls,  theatres, 
concerts — he  met  her  nowhere.  He  longed  to  hear 
her  spoken  of;  he  was  forever  bringing  up  her  name; 
but  would  then  turn  from  the  subject  in  a  panic 
before  he  could  be  answered.  He  rode  the  Pincio, 
and  at  every  turning  suffered  a  palpitation — it  was 
part  of  his  sickness  to  take  every  woman  within 
eye-reach  for  her.  Friday  came,  and  found  him  in 
a  fever  to  see  her — thirsty,  hungry  for  a  look  of  her. 

The  sun  was  going  down.  In  the  sanguinary 
light  the  majordomo  stood  at  the  Colibri  gates, 
looking  as  red  as  Satan. 

"For  the  Signorina  Rivallo,"  said  Richard,  hand- 
ing him  a  card.     The  man  smiled  in  commiseration. 

x86 


FORTUNATA 

*'Eccellenze,  the  Signorina  has  gone  to  the  North, 
to  Perugia." 

A  panic,  an  insane  fright,  took  hold  of  Dick. 

"When  will  she  be  home?" 

"Eccellenze,  I  am  not  informed."  The  majordo- 
mo  was  reserved.  His  people  were  of  position;  the 
world  claimed  them;  their  time  was  not  their  own. 

Lord  Trevers  turned  to  go.  She  had  left  the  city ! 
He  might  not  see  her  for  days,  for  months!  He 
might  never  see  her  again!  All  at  once  his  life 
looked  aimless,  empty,  without  reason  for  being. 

"Attenzione!" 

A  carriage  sweeping  around  the  curve  at  full 
speed  all  but  ran  him  down.  It  was  the  Colibri's 
victoria,  her  great  roans  and  clanking  harness,  her 
liveried  footmen  hanging  on  behind.  The  Princess's 
head-dress,  suggestive  of  a  feather  duster,  fluttered 
in  the  wind.  She  held  a  spaniel  in  her  lap,  and 
another  in  the  crook  of  her  arm;  her  boa  blew  out 
behind  her  like  a  fiery  snake.  At  sight  of  Richard 
she  aired  her  teeth  and,  turning,  said  something  to 
the  footmen.  They  laughed,  in  duty  bound.  The 
Princess  cursed  her  servants  or  joked  with  them,  as 
the  spirit  moved  her.  Lord  Trevers  moved  aside 
for  the  carriage  to  pass,  and  lifted  his  hat  without 
a  smile.  The  beldame  drove  on,  grinning  through 
her  furs  like  a  wolf. 

Yonder  goes,  thought  Richard,  the  guardian,  the 
teacher  of  the  woman  I  love.  A  foreboding  came 
over  him,  a  presage  of  misfortune.  The  passion  that 
held  him,  he  knew,  could  do  him  no  good.  Through 
the  court  the  Princess's  voice  echoed,  strident,  in- 
sincere, jeering  her  servants,  teasing  her  dogs.    She 

187 


FORTUNATA 

climbed  the  Palazzo  steps,  rapping  with  her  cane, 
and  passed  through  the  gaping  archway,  Hke  the 
evil  genius  of  the  house. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Fortunata  was  back, 
Richard  was  informed.  Suddenly  he  discovered 
that  he  liked  Rome.  At  the  turning  of  a  comer 
now  he  might  meet  happiness;  but  he  did  not  go 
where  his  joy,  his  obsession  lay.  For  some  reason 
he  no  longer  dared  do  so.  He  was  cured,  or  so  he 
told  himself,  and  yet  his  constant  thought  was  how 
and  when  he  should  first  see  her  again.  He  wanted 
to  be  put  to  the  proof,  he  said.  Their  meeting  came 
about  in  this  way: 

Richard  had  stepped  into  the  Grand  Hotel  to 
leave  some  cards,  when  he  heard  a  voice  at  his  side 
questioning  the  cashier — a  woman's  voice.  At  the 
sound  of  it,  his  heart  bounded  into  his  throat.  He 
turned.  Yes,  it  was  she!  At  sight  of  her  profile, 
her  pointed  chin  and  captivating  nose,  he  realized 
that  since  he  had  known  her  his  thoughts  had  never 
been  free  from  her.  He  spoke  her  name.  She 
turned  toward  him,  and  they  began  to  talk — he  with 
a  slight  stammer  characteristic  of  him  when  moved 
or  embarrassed;  she  indifferently,  without  a  smile 
or  any  effort  to  please,  yet  looking  at  him  the  while 
with  her  singular  eyes,  that  gave  to  her  lightest 
words  a  secret  significance.  He  was  piqued  that 
she  seemed  not  to  notice  that  he  made  no  mention 
of  her  absence.  She  was  calling  on  Mrs.  Hazard, 
she  explained,  and  left  him  with  one  of  her  adorable, 
sudden  smiles.  From  her  presence,  from  the  very 
rustle  of  her  dress,  her  charm  emanated,  and  the 
old,  delicious  agony  took  hold  of  him  again. 

188 


FORTUNATA 

It  is  his  mother,  thought  Fortunata,  his  old  harri- 
dan of  a  mother,  who  keeps  him  away  from  me. 
Lady  Bolton  has  given  her  an  ill  account — I  am 
frivolous,  flirtatious,  extravagant.  I  drink  cham- 
pagne, I  smoke.  I  have  just  broken  my  engage- 
ment to  a  dissipated  Frenchman,  and  the  name  of 
my  love-affairs  is  legion — worst  of  all,  I  am  a 
bigoted  Catholic  (most  untrue).  Besides,  my  rela- 
tives are  objectionable;  my  mother  is  inadequate, 
my  aunt  an  evil-tongued  beldame,  and  my  poor  sis- 
ter's reputation  not  of  the  best.  In  short,  I  am  not 
the  woman  to  make  Richard  happy.  Unquestionably 
this  is  the  state  of  affairs — well,  it  must  be  remedied. 

With  Fortunata,  to  think  was  to  act.  A  few 
days  later  at  one  of  Lady  Bolton's  dinners  she  set 
her  scheme  afloat.  She  found  herself  placed  next 
to  an  Englishman,  a  man  of  letters  and  a  great 
Shakespearian  student.  With  her  intrepid  courage 
she  plunged  into  literature.  At  dessert  she  heard 
herself,  to  her  own  surprise,  gossiping  about  Peri- 
cles. One  might  have  thought  she  was  his  inti- 
mate acquaintance.  In  spite  of  her  fluent  elo- 
quence, she  was  so  appreciative  of  her  neighbor's 
greater  knowledge,  so  attentive,  so  anxious  to  learn, 
almost  pathetic,  that  even  her  hostess's  basilisk 
glance  was  melted  when  it  rested  upon  her. 

After  the  men  were  left  alone.  Lady  Bolton  and 
the  Contessina  stood  together  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  reception-room,  alone,  beside  the  family  album. 
Fortunata  opened  it  at  haphazard.  A  cardboard 
leaf  fell  back,  disclosing  a  photograph  of  Violet  and 
Millicent,  smiling  inanely  at  each  other  across  a 
wicker-chair. 

189 


FORTUNATA 

"How  lovely!"  she  breathed,  almost  with  tender- 
ness. 

"Isn't  it  sweet!"  said  Lady  Bolton,  in  the  voice 
of  one  who  wept. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  your  daughters.  I  love  them 
dearly,  but  sometimes  I  fear  they  do  not  care  for 
me. 

"Quite  a  mistake;  on  the  contrary,  I  assure 
you—!" 

Fortunata  smiled  seraphically.  "Ah!  How  hap- 
py you  make  me.  I  have  few  friends;  at  least,  few 
of  the  kind  I  want.  If  it  would  not  tire  you,  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  a  little  of  my  life." 

"Oh,  not  at  all.    Will  you  have  coffee ?' * 

"Thank  you." 

When  they  were  seated,  Fortunata,  aware  that 
her  tight  princesse  and  decided  decollete  were  not  in 
unison  with  the  story  of  misused  childhood  she 
was  about  to  weave,  set  the  ever-useful  album  on 
one  end  and  hid  as  much  as  possible  of  her  person 
behind  it.  Thus,  with  her  bare  shoulders  emerging 
over  the  barricade,  and  the  heavenly  expression  of 
her  upturned  eyes,  she  made  an  acceptable  triplet 
to  the  Sistine  cherubs. 

"You  must  know,"  she  began,  "that  my  child- 
hood was  saddened  by  religious  dissensions.  You 
cannot  have  failed,  Lady  Bolton,  to  have  heard  of 
the  Princess  Cohbri's  C5niicism  in  regard  to  every 
subject  relating  to  the  Church.  My  poor  mother 
has  long  been  ill  and  too  enfeebled  to  give  me  sup- 
port; and  my  father  ceased,  as  a  very  young  man, 
to  be  a  professing  Catholic.  Nevertheless,  I  was 
baptized  into  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  the  Marchesa 

190 


FORTUNATA 

Dacampagna  undertook  my  religious  instruction. 
My  sister,  in  spite  of  great  nobility  of  heart,  is,  I 
fear,  a  fanatic.  Yet  she  was  unable  to  inspire  me 
with  her  faith.  Still,  I  continued  to  drift  to  mass 
with  the  servants,  now  and  then.  I  watched  these 
rites  without  understanding.  How  unhappy  is  a 
child  brought  up  without  having  known  the  peace 
of  religion,  and  uninstructed  in  what  is,  after  all, 
our  only  consolation!  I  assure  you.  Lady  Bolton, 
I  have  endured  some  lonely  and  sorrowful  hours." 

Till  now  Fortunata's  narrative  was  not  as  false 
as  might  be  imagined.  While  speaking,  she  was 
aware  of  a  truth  of  which  she  had  never  before  been 
conscious.  But  as  she  proceeded  she  began  to 
embroider. 

"My  deepest  pain  was  caused  by  the  fact  that  in 
secret  I  was  bound  in  reality  to  the  Church  of  my 
mother — yet,  in  spite  of  my  utter  moral  starvation, 
I  was  at  heart,  and  still  am,  a  Protestant.  The  other 
day  I  heard  you  address  the  meeting  for  the  welfare 
of  the  Church  of  England — I  was  there"  (will  she 
swallow  that?  mused  Fortunata).  "You  were  elo- 
quent. Lady  Bolton;  what  you  said  was  true,  ter- 
ribly true.  I  was  greatly  moved — I  wept — I  was 
never  more  touched." 

After  that  the  Ambassadress  was  wont  to  say  that 
the  little  Contessina  Rivallo  was  a  sweet  girl,  and 
it  was  sad  to  see  the  struggles  of  a  soul  virtuous 
naturally,  but  morally  starved.  She  even  went  so 
far  as  to  tell  Lord  Trevers  that  in  Fortunata  there 
was  much  that  was  commendable. 

The  mind  has  a  way  of  foreseeing  and  naming  a 
date  that  shall  prove  a  triumph  or  a  failure.     It  was 

191 


FORTUNATA 

the  night  of  Lady  Bolton's  weekly  dinner-dance. 
Fortunata  was  dressing.  To-night  is  my  last  chance ! 
thought  she.  A  panic  seized  her;  her  hands  trem- 
bled. That  night  her  partners,  for  the  first  time, 
found  her  preoccupied,  unresponsive.  Her  smile  was 
borrowed  and  did  not  fit  her.  She  kept  a  wary 
watch  on  the  clock.  The  unrelenting  hands  went 
roimd — two  and  three  were  recklessly  told.  She 
thought.  He  is  not  coming! — and  the  inanities  she 
was  uttering  died  on  her  lips.  An  undisputed  and 
unenviable  partner  led  her  out  to  dance.  For  the 
first  measures  he  waltzed  unheeded,  then  he  was 
appeased  with  the  tenderest  smile.  Fortunata' s 
heart  warmed — she  had  seen  two  reassuring  shoul- 
ders dwarfing  all  others.  She  wanted  to  run  across 
to  him,  to  say,  "I  knew  you  would  come!  I  have 
been  willing  you  to  come!"  And  when  his  voice 
asked,  "Will  you  dance  with  me?"  she  slipped  into 
his  arms  as  though  made  for  them.  Her  desire  to 
be  loved,  she  thought,  must  emanate  from  her  touch, 
take  possession  of  him,  and  make  him  desire  her. 
They  passed  the  conservatory;  it  was  empty;  they 
went  in  and  sat  down. 

Fortimata  was  in  white.  White  is  more  appeal- 
ing than  any  color.  The  palms  and  the  exotic 
foliage  cast  a  discreet  shadow.  Languorously 
through  the  leaves  the  music  penetrated,  and  one 
forgot  that  this  throbbing,  palpitating  song  was 
made  by  brass  and  strings  of  catgut. 

"Are  you  fond  of  this  waltz?"  she  asked  him. 

He  answered:  "It  was  our  first  dance  together, 
do  you  remember?" 

She  said:  "I  have  not  forgotten.  We  shall  not 
192 


FORTUNATA 

meet  again  for  a  long  time — if  at  all,"  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  during  which  she  looked  at  him 
intently,  as  though  to  impress  his  face  on  her 
memory  forever. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  startled. 

"I  am  leaving  Rome." 

"Leaving  Rome?" 

"Yes.  I  am  going  to  Florence.  Guido  thinks  of 
opening  his  house.  I  can  help  Antonia.  Besides, 
I  mean  to  give  up  society." 

"But  why?     For  what  reason?" 

"Disillusionment,  weariness.  As  I  grow  older, 
the  hard  work,  the  futility  of  it  all  comes  home  to 
me.  The  Palazzo  Colibri  is  uncongenial.  I  have 
nothing  in  common  with  any  one.  I  am  a  stranger 
there,  an  alien.  The  sooner  I  am  gone  the  better. 
I  am  tired — too  tired  to  keep  up  any  longer." 

In  the  dim  light  she  was  as  appealing  as  a  child, 
as  pale  and  shadowy  as  a  phantom. 

A  tenderness  so  acute  as  to  be  almost  suffering 
transfixed  Richard. 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  for  a  long  time — for  months, 
perhaps?" 

"No." 

"  I  shall  not  see  you — ^why,  that  means  that  I 
can't  speak  with  you,  or  bow  to  you  even!  You 
mustn't  go,  you  sha'n't  go!  Forgive  me,  of  course 
you  are  the  one  to  decide — it  is  none  of  my  busi- 
ness.    I  don't  want  to  interfere!" 

How  cautious  he  is !  thought  Fortunata. 

"You  are  a  kind,  a  devoted  friend,"  she  mur- 
mured, grateful — and  in  thankfulness,  no  doubt — 
she  gave  him  her  hand. 
13  193 


FORTUNATA 

"A  friend?  Oh,  Fortimata,  if  you  only  knew!  I 
can't  let  you  go,  because  I  love  you!  There,  I've 
said  it — I  knew  I  would.  Be  my  wife.  Promise 
you  will  marry  me!    Promise!" 

"I  cannot!" 

"I  won't  beHeve  that  you  don't  care  for  me.  It 
isn't  possible  that  I  can  love  you  as  I  do,  and  you 
feel  nothing." 

"There  are  many  reasons — " 

"Give  me  one!" 

"I  could  give  you  twenty.  The  difference  in  our 
religions." 

"What  of  that?" 

"Your  mother's  prejudice  against  foreigners." 

"Ah,  Fortunata,  when  she  sees  you,  when  she 
sees  how  good  you  are — ^how  beautiful — she  can't 
help  but  love  you  more  even  than  your  own  mother." 

"I  must  not — "  from  Fortunata,  in  a  hesitating 
voice.     "It  is  impossible,  impossible!" 

"Nothing  is  impossible!  You  shall  marry  me! 
You  are  as  necessary  to  me  as  breath  or  food.  It 
is  only  a  question  of  time." 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him,  smiling 
tenderly. 

"Since  it  is  inevitable.  Lord  Trevers — Richard — 
Dick— then— ': 


CHAPTER  XXII 

NEXT  morning,  very  early  it  seemed  to  Fortu- 
nata,  Lord  Trevers's  card  was  brought  up  to  her. 

"We  must  tell  the  Princess,"  said  she,  and  taking 
Richard  by  the  hand,  she  led  him  to  her  aunt. 

The  Colibri  was  in  the  morning-room  drinking 
curagoa  and  smoking  her  cigarette.  In  the  full 
sunlight  her  face  seemed  yellow  and  soft,  as  though 
about  to  melt  like  a  wax  mask.  She  wore  a  cap 
drawn  down  to  her  ears  and  crowned  by  a  wreath 
of  artificial  flowers  gone  to  seed.  At  her  side, 
chained  by  the  leg  to  his  perch.  Coco  sang  his 
ribald  songs  and  laughed  his  loud,  insane  laugh. 

Lord  Trevers,  looking  very  pale,  bowed  to  her 
Excellency. 

"I  have  promised  to  marry  Richard," said  Fort- 
unata.     "I'm  so  happy!" 

"Ah!  Carissima!"  cried  the  Colibri,  in  a  qua- 
vering voice,  and  assuming  the  manner  of  a  kind 
old  guardian  on  the  stage,  "This  is  a  happy  mo- 
ment! Sit  down,  children.  Sit  down.  Ah,  youth! 
Ah,  happiness!" 

Lord  Trevers  offered  Fortunata  a  chair  and  took 
one  himself,  his  serious  eyes  fixed  on  the  Prin- 
cess. 

"Who  can  doubt  Providence?"  continued  her  Ex- 
cellency.    "  Who  can  doubt  there  is  a  power,  shel- 

195 


FORTUNATA 

tering,  directing — al  diavolo,  quell'  uccello! — devil 
take  that  bird!" 

"He's  so  noisy,"  admitted  Fortunata. 

"Fortunata  goes  out  one  morning,  turns  a  certain 
corner,  happens  to  meet  you,  Lord  Trevers.  From 
that  moment  you  are  drawn  to  each  other.  Now, 
had  Fortunata  decided  not  to  buy  a  certain  green 
hat—" 

"A  blue  hat.  Princess,"  corrected  Richard. 

"Quite  so,  a  blue- hat,  Lord  Trevers;  you  see,  an 
incident,  a  mere  nothing  can  change  a  life,  so  the 
fate  of  a  woman  can  hang  on  a  little  green  hat." 

"It  was  blue,"  said  Lord  Trevers,  "and  it  was 
rather  large." 

"Forgive  me!  A  blue  hat.  Ah,  here  comes  the 
Marchesa." 

"Antonia,"  said  Fortunata,  "I  am  very  happy; 
kiss  me." 

The  Marchesa  looked  at  her  sister,  her  great  moist 
eyes  blazing  with  tenderness.  She  kissed  Fortu- 
nata on  the  forehead,  and  held  out  both  hands  to 
Lord  Trevers,  who  bowed  sternly,  as  might  the  prophet 
Saint  John  to  the  Scarlet  Woman  of  the  Apocalypse. 

"Ah,  Fortunata!"  cried  the  Princess,  who  had 
forgotten  the  r61e  of  kind  old  guardian,  "what 
cold-storage  manners  the  English  have!  Is  it  any 
wonder  they  can  stand  the  Indian  climate  and  the 
tropics?" 

"Lord  Trevers,"  said  Antonia,  in  her  careful 
English,  and  warm,  vibrant  voice,  "I  wish  you  may 
find  in  your  marriage  all  the  happiness  that  makes 
the  relationship  of  man  and  wife  the  most  beautiful 
thing  on  earth.'! 

196 


FORTUNATA 

"In  marriage,  Antonia,  we  are  no  better  than 
animals,"  cried  the  CoHbri,  throwing  away  her 
cigarette;  "but  in  love  we  are  far  better.  No  one 
knows  better  than  you,  Antonia,  that  from  a  lover, 
at  least,  you  meet  with  consideration,  with  grati- 
tude—" 

"Richard,"  cried  Fortunata,  "see  what  a  funny 
face  Coco  is  making !  I  want  to  tell  you  something ! 
Come  along!"  She  bustled  about  and  managed  to 
rout  him  out  of  the  room. 

Fortunately,  he  had  caught  little  of  the  conversa- 
tion. He  knew  scarcely  any  Italian.  He  could  never 
think  of  two  things  at  once,  and  had  been  con- 
scientiously intent  on  making  his  bow  to  the  la- 
dies. 

The  world  heard;  the  world  was  astonished  and 
surer  than  ever  that  Lord  Trevers  was  brave,  but 
not  intelligent.  On  the  Princess's  reception-day  her 
Excellency  held  forth  on  Fortunata's  prospects.  The 
Colibri  was  in  transports,  while  Fortunata,  looking 
in  her  tea-gown  like  a  child  in  disguise,  sat  modestly 
at  her  aunt's  side. 

From  the  hall  voices  approached,  the  tread  of  feet, 
the  whisper  of  silk. 

The  hubbub  grew.  The  door  flew  open,  and  in 
strode  Miss  Case  with  a  dozen  men.  Her  crepe-de- 
chine  dress  clung  to  her  as  though  she  were  risen 
from  the  sea.  She  passed  through  the  room,  shout- 
ing greetings,  nicknames,  personal  remarks,  nodding 
her  plumed  hat. 

Fortunata,  at  the  tea-table,  sprang  up  to  welcome 
her.  The  girls  met  in  each  other's  arms.  "Dear- 
est Fortunata !"    "  Dear  Pearl !"   They  drew  off,  cov- 

197 


FORTUNATA 

ertly  watchful,  each  summing  up  the  other's  state  of 
looks,  dislike  in  both  hearts  and  disquietude. 

"Am  I  to  congratulate  you?" 

"Dearest  Pearl,  it  depends  on  what." 

"Then,  it  isn't  true?" 

"What  isn't  true?" 

"I  said  I  didn't  believe  it." 

"You  mystify  me." 

"I  always  knew  you  wouldn't  have  Dick  Trevers." 

"Ah,  you  are  so  intuitive,  sometimes." 

"Well,  he  isn't  your  kind."  Miss  Case's  face  had 
smoothed  out  like  linen  imder  a  hot  iron,  "I  heard, 
but  gossip  is  so  silly." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  Lord  Trevers  and  I  are  good 
friends." 

"Exactly  what  I  said." 

"And  I  have  promised  to  marry  him." 

"Ah!"  It  was  a  knock-down  blow,  but  Pearl 
did  not  flinch.  "Ah,  well,"  she  said,  with  patron- 
age, "we'll  hope  that  it  will  turn  out  all  right." 

"Thank  you.     It's  worth  the  risk." 

They  dropped  hands,  but  continued  to  smile  into 
each  other's  eyes. 

Really,  it  was  not  much  more  amusing  being 
engaged  to  this  Englishman  than  to  poor  old  Ra- 
oul.  Fortunata  found  that  she  had  grown  quite 
attached  to  the  Prince,  after  a  filial  fashion.  She 
often  caught  herself  wondering  had  he  left  Rome? 
Would  she  ever  see  him  again?  She  missed  his 
gnome-like  little  face.  Still,  on  the  whole,  she  was 
much  better  off.  Now  she  had  a  fianc^  to  be  proud 
of — young,  attractive,  very  handsome.  But,  heav- 
ens, isn't  he  stupid!  was  Fortunata's  secret  thought. 

198 


FORTUNATA 

The  Princess  invariably  referred  to  him  as  "the 
corpse"  or  "the  body."  He  was  a  persevering 
lover;  came  early;  stayed  late,  and,  like  all  true 
lovers,  appeared  imbecile.  With  the  Prince,  how- 
ever tiresome  his  protestations,  Fortunata  had  been 
at  least  spared  all  importunate  caresses.  He  had 
approached  her  as  an  idol,  and  never  dared  to  touch 
her  hand  without  bows  and  grimaces  and  excuses. 
Dick  did  not  conceal  his  feelings.  His  kisses,  al- 
though he  never  guessed  it,  meant  nothing  to  Fort- 
tmata.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  thrilling  ecstasy 
of  nearness,  and  could  find  no  pleasure  in  having 
him  for  hours  at  her  side,  voiceless  with  love,  her 
hands  in  his. 

He  told  her  of  his  family  and  home,  the  details 
of  a  prosaic  life.  In  fancy  she  saw  the  well-kept 
house,  the  well-fed  horses  and  servants.  Method, 
comfort,  respectability.  Great  observance  to  cus- 
tom, to  prejudice.  Humdrum  gentry  coming  to  call. 
Long  roads  leading  to  dull  visits,  to  dull  garden- 
parties,  to  dull  tennis  tournaments.  The  tolling  of 
the  bell  for  some  poor  old  body  in  the  workhouse 
causing  a  sensation.  Now  that  she  was  bound  over 
to  this  life,  it  did  not  seem  to  be  as  full  of  promise  as 
while  she  had  been  still  fighting  to  be  Lady  Trevers. 

"When  we  are  married,"  he  said  to  her  one  day, 
"I'm  going  to  take  you  home.  I  want  my  people 
to  see  you." 

"Oh,  I  sha'n't  be  happy,  Dick,  till  I  meet  your 
mother  and  your  dear  sisters!" 

"I  have  other  relatives,  too,"  he  said.  And  he 
added,  with  perhaps  a  touch  of  regret,  "I've  some- 
times thought  I'd  like  to  take  you  off  where  I  could 

199 


FORTUNATA 

have  you  all  to  myself,  all  the  time,  dearest.  The 
others  will  be  wanting  you  to  help.  Mother  has 
got  lots  of  work  with  her  charities,  her  Bible  classes 
and  things.  She  keeps  the  village  together;  there's 
no  one  like  her.  She  has  a  tree  every  Christmas  in 
the  ball-room — " 

"The  ball-room!"  cried  Fortunata,  brightening. 
"Do  you  give  balls?" 

"We  did  when  the  girls  came  out." 

"Ah!" 

"Oh,  I  tell  you  the  mater  does  a  lot  of  good,"  he 
continued,  "and  my  sisters  help  her.  They  are 
jolly  girls;  they'll  like  you.  I've  written  that 
you're  like  an  English  girl." 

"That,  of  course,"  said  Fortunata,  "is  what  I 
want  to  be."  In  imagination  she  saw  herself  claim- 
ing kin  with  cotmtless  Britishers,  just  like  Richard, 
only  women. 

A  French  saying  there  is,  that  the  woman  who  is 
all  in  all  to  a  man  is  never  she  who  really  loves  him. 
She  may  be  his  through  caprice,  or  self-interest, 
or  a  momentary  impulse — never  can  he  keep,  often 
never  has  he  had,  her  heart.  If,  then,  a  man  were 
ever  laying  up  for  himself  a  future  of  self-deception, 
of  disappointment,  of  heartbreak,  it  was  Dick 
Trevers,  who  loved  Fortunata  profoundly.  This 
commonplace  youth  was  transformed;  his  dulness 
and  muteness  began  to  fall  from  him.  He  used  his 
words  better;  his  vocabulary  grew.  His  passion  to 
him  was  a  miracle.  He  expressed  himself  not  un- 
quaintly. 

Lord  Trevers's  visits  were  from  dusk  to  late  hours, 
and  Fortunata  foimd  the  evenings  long,  very  long. 

200 


FORTUNATA 

At  times  she  pleaded  fatigue,  and  would  not  leave 
her  room.  Every  seven  days  she  was  taken  with  a 
violent  headache,  and  the  time  between  was  inter- 
spersed with  chills,  ague  fits,  and  touches  of  fever. 

"Look  out,"  the  Colibri  warned  her,  "the  first 
thing  you  know  Richard  Trevers  will  break  off  the 
engagement!  These  Englishmen  are  hipped  on  the 
subject  of  healthy  wives." 

Fortunata  would  have  found  the  time  passed  with 
her  fiance  less  unendurable  had  it  not  been  for  his 
everlasting  talk  about  his  mother. 

"My  dear  mother!"  said  Dick,  tenderly,  as  he 
handed  Fortunata  the  photograph  of  a  fierce  old 
lady,  with  a  very  short  bang  and  a  very  long  face. 

From  Dick's  unconscious  revelations  she  concluded 
that  Lady  Trevers  had  many  prejudices  and  very 
bad  manners.  The  Signorina  Rivallo  sent  her  futiure 
mother-in-law  a  very  flattering  note,  and,  without 
being  too  obsequious,  hinted  at  a  knowledge  of  her 
own  unworthiness.  In  answer  she  received  a  very 
dismal  letter.  Lady  Trevers  wrote  that  she  was  long 
acquainted  with  the  fact  that  a  man  must  leave 
his  mother  and  cleave  unto  his  wife,  and  then  fol- 
lowed two  sentences  more  of  an  equally  Christian 
and  prosaic  nature. 

Fortunata  had  brought  about,  had  accomplished, 
what  she  had  long  desired.  Richard  had  no  other 
thought  than  her,  yet  she  was  not  particularly 
happy.  On  two  stiff  chairs  they  sat  out  the  even- 
ings, while  at  the  room's  far  end  a  dim  figure,  some 
member  of  the  family,  kept  watch  in  the  cautious 
Italian  fashion.  Either  the  Princess  Colibri  held  a 
jeering  eye  on  the  lovers,  or  the  discreet  Antonia 

201 


FORTUNATA 

turned  away  her  head.  As  night  came  down  the 
candles  could  not  dissipate  the  gloom.  No  one  saw 
if  Dick's  arm  was  around  Fortunata's  shoulders. 

"Ah,  if  we  could  stay  this  way  for  centuries!" 
Richard  whispered,  breathing  into  her  pompadour. 

At  the  mere  thought  of  such  a  prolonged  visit, 
she  had  a  crick  in  her  back. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HOWEVER  brilliant  Fortunata's  engagement  from 
a  pecuniary  and  social  standpoint,  Rome  received 
the  news  without  enthusiasm.  The  English,  though 
fashionable  in  Italy,  are  not  popular. 

Fortunata  found  herself  out  of  favor  at  home,  and 
very  much  in  debt  in  the  city.  She  got  black  looks 
from  Guido.  One  day  after  dinner  he  followed  her 
up  the  steps,  growling  like  a  dog.  He  overtook  her 
on  the  landing. 

"All  the  English  are  pigs,"  he  said.  "Why  do 
you  marry  one  ?  San  sacramento!"  he  swore,  grasp- 
ing her  by  the  arm,  "I'd  like  to  wring  your  neck!" 

She  was  frightened,  and  crouched  like  any  street 
urchin,  her  arm  across  her  face. 

He  thought  better  of  it,  and  merely  gave  her 
wrist  a  wrench.  Such  incidents  were  of  daily  oc- 
currence. Life  in  the  Palazzo  was  becoming  im- 
possible. Guido  was  hardly  ever  sober,  and  as 
brutal  as  a  peasant.  One  night,  coming  home  after 
some  carousal,  he  struck  his  wife,  who,  dishevelled 
and  half  -  dressed,  rushed  to  Luigi  for  protection. 
She  tore  into  his  room,  pale  as  the  dead,  with  her 
hair  on  end  and  a  face  like  Medusa.  The  men 
came  to  blows.  They  could  be  heard  all  over  the 
house,  cursing  and  shrieking. 

Fortunata,  Eugenio,  Francesca,  the  Contessa,  with 
203 


FORTUNATA 

a  hot-water  bag  in  her  hand,  the  Princess  mys- 
terious and  awful  in  night-robes,  came  from  their 
rooms  fearful  of  fire  and  calamity,  while  the  ser- 
vants, with  candles,  ran  about  distracted.  Hardly 
a  night  passed  without  some  such  disturbance,  turn- 
ing this  house  of  the  aristocracy  into  a  tenement 
made  hideous  by  brawls. 

Luigi,  since  his  rebuff,  had  assumed  for  Fortunata 
a  manner  of  overdone  gallantry,  a  tone  of  playful 
irony,  that  somehow  made  her  ill  at  ease.  His  love 
affair  with  Antonia,  a  sort  of  sentimental  tantrum 
one  might  have  called  it,  was  still  in  full  swing. 
Luigi  began  to  absent  himself  often  and  for  long 
intervals.  Antonia  took  to  moping  in  her  room. 
She  hardly  slept,  and  ate  even  less,  and,  as  ever, 
the  singular  creature  was  sincere. 

The  Princess  was  in  her  element.  She  revelled  in 
ill-feeling.  She  put  every  one  at  loggerheads.  She 
encouraged  Eugenio  to  spend  his  time  and  his 
money  and  his  hope  on  La  Valli^re. 

"Per  Dio!  one  must  see  the  world;  one  must 
know  women!"  She  jeered  at  Fortimata  that  the 
day  of  her  nuptials  was  not  yet  definitely  decided. 
"It's  always  the  bird  of  paradise  that  never  finds 
a  mate."  She  kept  Billford  so  flustered  that  the 
poor  old  soul  was  ready  to  turn  a  handspring,  and 
Francesca  went  about  half  the  time  with  eyes  that 
were  red  from  weeping.  The  Princess  found  for 
the  Contessa  a  new  disease,  and  old  Nello  walked 
backward  before  her  Excellency. 

In  such  surroundings  it  was  in  vain  for  Fortunata 
to  keep  up  a  semblance  of  respectability.  Burdened 
by  debts,  badgered  by  Guido,  harassed  by  Luigi, 

204 


FORTUNATA 

teased  by  the  Princess,  forced  unwillingly  to  be 
Antonia's  confidante,  she  longed  for  the  morning 
that  was  to  make  her  free  forever.  But  as  yet 
nothing  was  decided,  no  date  named,  no  arrange- 
ments made. 

The  Princess  had  generously  allowed  her  favorite 
a  certain  small  reception-hall  off  the  sola,  wherein 
Fortunata  might  entertain  her  own  visitors.  Lord 
Trevers's  pride,  the  pride  of  the  gentleman  and  of 
the  Englishman,  was  chafed  to  see  his  future  wife, 
day  after  day,  the  centre  of  a  group  of  familiar  young 
men  whose  glances  spoke  no  very  respectful  ad- 
miration, 

Fortunata,  always  awake  to  the  main  chance, 
was  alarmed. 

If  things  go  on  like  this,  she  thought,  I  can't 
hope  to  succeed. 

Trevers,  fierce  as  a  Saracen  to  his  rivals,  was  al- 
ways at  her  side,  and  her  acquaintances  fell  from 
her,  chilled  by  his  arctic  manner.  Her  men  friends 
faded  out  of  her  life,  became  mere  phantoms,  pleas- 
ant, frivolous  ghosts,  which  at  heart  she  regretted. 

Life  at  the  Palazzo  Colibri  could  not  fail  to  dis- 
gust Lord  Trevers,  true  Britisher  and  lover  of  the 
conventional.  To  be  sure,  the  English  nobility  is 
not  over-scrupulous.  Bills  go  long  unpaid  in  Eng- 
land, but  the  fashion  of  dunning  is  more  elegant 
than  that  employed  in  Italy — the  best  people  owe, 
but  they  owe  without  shame  or  squalor.  Here  in 
Rome  was  a  family  living  by  its  wits,  spending  other 
people's  money,  denying  their  doors  to  creditors, 
disclaiming  bills,  clamored  at  by  tradespeople,  and 
gaining  the  day's  dinner  by  cheating.     One  would 

205 


FORTUNATA 

scarcely  choose  a  wife  out  of  a  gaming-hell,  yet  play 
ran  very  high  in  the  Princess's  boudoir.  At  two  in 
the  morning  baccarat  was  in  full  swing.  The  cards 
were  shuffled  and  dealt  in  the  unearthly  dawn. 
Strangers  and  Americans  played  with  her  Excellency, 
nor  did  they  play  often,  for  she  had  too  consistent 
luck.  The  Princess  Colibri  had  promised  Fortunata 
her  help,  but  the  old  buffoon,  when  talking  with 
Richard,  could  not  forbear  jibes  at  the  English,  whom 
she  cordially  disliked. 

"What  a  silly  idea  that  is,"  she  once  said,  "that 
because  one  comes  from  England,  one  must  have 
prominent  teeth.  I  remember,  we  once  had  an 
English  consul  who  had  none  at  all — "  or,  "I  have 
always  contradicted.  Lord  Trevers,  the  rumor  that 
your  Queen  drank." 

A  few  days  later  Fortunata  threw  open  her  aunt's 
door.  "It  is  settled  for  the  third,  Zia!"  she  cried, 
with  the  look  of  one  who  has  just  won  a  race;  and 
she  added,  fervently,  "Praise  be  to  the  Madonna!" 

Her  future  was  assured.  Effort,  anxiety,  were 
over  and  done  with,  yet  she  was  hardly  happier. 
She  feared  this  new  life;  she  clung'  to  the  old.  The 
days  slipped  past — evaded  her,  as  it  were.  The  sun 
went  down  on  the  last  evening  of  her  girlhood,  and 
as  sleep  overtook  her  she  yielded  with  terror,  for 
all  the  sooner  must  come  the  ominous  to-morrow. 

Next  morning  the  sun  was  well  up  when  Fortunata, 
lying  in  her  bed,  supine  and  straight  as  an  arrow, 
suddenly  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

This  is  my  wedding-day,  thought  she,  and  a 
limitless  sadness  swept  over  her.  Poor  child,  whose 
nature  was  to  pursue  with  inexhaustible  ardor  her 

2O0 


FORTUNATA 

aims,  which,  when  attained,  she  invariably  found 
to  be  irksome,  worthless.  She  was  panic-stricken 
now  to  find  herself  all  but  married  to  a  man  for 
whom  she  felt  not  the  least  inclination,  not  the 
faintest  tremor  of  love,  and  whose  caresses,  were 
the  truth  known,  inspired  her  almost  with  aversion. 
She  lay  prone,  passionately  regretting  the  subter- 
fuges, the  artifices,  the  clever  way  by  which  she  had 
brought  about  this  long-aimed-at  state  of  things. 
Her  old  friends,  the  gargoyles,  looked  down  on  her, 
she  thought,  with  melancholy  —  uncouth,  faithful 
little  monsters,  under  whose  familiar  care  she  would 
likely  enough  never  sleep  again.  It  was  brutally 
plain  that  the  dreams  in  which  she  had  known  her- 
self radiant,  trembling  with  love  on  going  to  the 
arms  of  her  bridegroom,  must  be  resigned  forever. 

"As  a  joyous  waking  to  the  bridal  morning," 
mused  Fortunata,  gloomily,  "I  don't  think  much 
of  this."  And  she  put  her  long,  narrow  white  feet 
out  of  bed. 

The  rest  of  the  day  was  a  dream — jumbled, 
chaotic,  weighted  with  foreboding. 

She  was  aware  of  Antonia,  vibrant  with  sympathy, 
smoothing  the  folds  of  the  bridal  veil,  while  out  of 
the  glass  her  own  face  looked  at  her,  very  pale,  very 
small,  like  that  of  a  little  phantom.  She  came  down 
the  stairs,  and  her  dress  whispered  round  her  feet. 
Some  people  below  looked  at  her  and  said  "Ah!" 
Next,  the  English  Embassy,  the  giant  footman 
throwing  open  the  door,  and  there  she  stood  with 
Richard  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  the  acute 
odor  of  the  lilies  took  her  at  the  throat.  Richard 
put  a  ring  on  her  finger ;  his  big,  cool  hand  held  hers. 

207 


FORTUNATA 

Next,  he  was  with  her  alone  in  a  carriage.  He  was 
telling  her  for  the  hundredth  time  his  disappoint- 
ment that  his  mother,  the  fondest,  the  most  devoted 
of  parents,  could  not  bring  herself  to  leave  England, 
even  for  his  marriage.  She  said,  "It  is  too  bad!" 
And  she  saw  a  scar  on  his  forehead  that  she  had 
never  seen  before. 

Then,  tedious  complications — going  before  caged 
men,  signing  one's  name;  then  back  again  to  what 
used  to  be  home.  Hundreds  of  people  came  up  to 
her  holding  out  their  hands.  She  shook  these  hands. 
The  new  ring  cut  into  her  fingers.  Then  the  shad- 
ows began  to  eat — why,  she  could  not  imagine.  Sub- 
consciously, she  went  to  her  room  like  a  sleep- 
walker, and  made  ready  for  departure,  assisted  by 
Hortense.  Hortense  was  in  tears.  Hymen  made 
her  cry.     It  was  a  habit. 

Without  a  word  Fortunata  slipped  into  a  travel- 
ling-dress whose  modest  sleeves  ended  in  points  on 
the  backs  of  her  hands.  Before  the  glass  she  pinned 
on  her  toque;  from  the  mirror  her  eyes  looked  back 
at  her  as  at  a  stranger — gravely,  almost  with  re- 
proach. She  sent  the  maid  with  the  valise  from  the 
room.  The  genial  sun  shone  in.  Kind  old  chairs! 
Sheltering  bed! 

Good-bye  —  never  again  —  are  awful  words.  It 
hurt  her  to  close  the  door.  It  went  to  her  heart  to 
turn  the  knob  and  shut  out  her  gay,  ambitious,  un- 
scrupulous girlhood. 

"Viva  la  Principessa!  Viva  la  Colibri!  Viva  la 
Fortunata!" 

The  hall,  damp  as  the  catacombs,  swarmed  with 
guests,  drinking  and  disporting,  while  the  carriage 

208 


FORTUNATA 

that  was  to  take  Lord  and  Lady  Trevers  away  stood 
blistering  in  the  sun. 

Fortunata  came  down  the  stairs  swiftly,  wrapped 
in  a  discreet  cloak.  She  looked  gentle  and  good, 
long  and  narrow,  like  a  Fra  Angelico  angel.  Around 
her  toque  her  nebulous  hair  made  a  halo.  Eugenio, 
sentimental  with  drinking  his  sister's  health,  met 
her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  took  both  her  hands, 
kissed  one  and  then  the  other,  exclaiming,  in  Italian, 
**I  wish  you  every  happiness,  most  sympathetic  of 
sisters!"  Then  countless  good-byes — Guido  and 
Luigi,  de  Brillac  and  Marcel  —  partners,  suitors, 
flames  of  a  month  ago,  last  season's  admirers.  To 
Fortunata' s  surprise,  not  to  say  disappointment, 
they  all  bore  up  bravely.  For  a  minute  she  stood 
scanning  these  faces,  meeting  here  and  there  eyes 
that  had  once  held  her  the  rarest  thing  on  earth.  To 
leave  no  regrets  stabbed  her.  She  made  her  way  to 
the  Princess  Colibri,  kissed  her  aunt's  hand,  and 
bending  down  her  cloud  of  indefinite  brown  hair, 
murmured  something  ending  in  gratitude.  Her 
Excellency's  answer  was  prodigiously  amusing,  to 
judge  from  the  laughter  it  evoked.  Fortunata  had, 
however,  already  turned  away.  Antonia,  always 
capable  of  emotion,  clasped  her  sister  in  her  arms, 
kissed  her  fervently  on  the  brow — rekissed  her,  to 
the  disarrangement  of  the  toque  and  to  Fortunata' s 
secret  annoyance.  As  for  Fortunata's  mother,  she 
laid  her  face  on  her  daughter's  shoulder  and  rolled 
her  head  feebly  from  side  to  side.  She  seemed  about 
to  perish  with  grief  for  the  loss  of  this  child,  whom  she 
had  never  known,  whom  she  had  never  watched  over 
— for  the  loss  of  this  acquaintance,  this  fellow-lodger. 
14  2og 


FORTUNATA 

The  ladies  nearby  had  tears  in  their  eyes — the 
dowagers  and  mothers  and  marriageable  daughters 
who  had  backbitten  and  slyly  abused  Fortunata 
for  the  last  four  years.  Tears  are  cheap  in  Italy. 
Nello  wept.  The  majordomo  wept.  Miss  Bill- 
ford  wept.  And  all  the  while  Francesca  waved  a 
handkerchief  and  piped,  "Be  happy!  Be  very,  very 
happy!" 

Richard,  with  the  aspect  of  a  pall-bearer  officiat- 
ing at  the  hearse,  helped  his  wife  into  the  carriage. 
His  expression  would  have  depressed  a  less  self- 
appreciative  bride.  Decorous  in  sorrow,  he  sat 
down  by  her  side  and  closed  the  door. 

' '  Viva !    Viva  la  Fortunata !" 

A  storm  of  rice  struck  the  window,  a  black  blotch 
like  a  bat  eddied  over  the  carriage — ^the  legendary 
shoe  cast  by  Miss  Billford,  who,  in  the  emotions  of 
the  day,  forgot  for  once  her  deep-rooted  antipathy 
to  superstition.  The  coachman  cracked  his  whip, 
and  they  were  on  their  way!  Dick  kept  repeating, 
"One  hat  box,  two  valises,  and  three  trunks,"  star- 
ing at  Fortunata  as  though  he  would  eat  her  up. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE  train  ran  a  frantic  course  along  the  west- 
em  shore  of  Italy,  through  fertile  fields,  past 
hills  veiled  in  mist.  They  had  a  compartment  to 
themselves. 

He  said:  " Our  life  is  beginning.     Are  you  happy  ?" 

She  said:   "Oh,  yes!     Of  course,  very." 

"You  are  my  wife,  my  own;  you  belong  to  me; 
you  are  mine!" 

His  voice  was  altered. 

The  breathless  train  soothed  down  a  little. 

"Don't,  Dick,  don't!" 

"  I  must  kiss  you !" 

"We  are  slowing  up." 

"God!    How  I  love  you!" 

"We  are  stopping!" 

"You're  so  pretty!" 

"That  fat  person  will  see  you,  Richard!'* 

And  sure  enough,  a  stout  hourgeoise  laden  with 
packages  was  striving  to  climb  into  the  compart- 
ment. She  would  have  stuck  in  the  door  forever, 
and  Dick  must  needs  pull  her  through.  He  took 
her  bundles  from  her  with  the  ferocity  of  a  robber, 
and  aimed  them  desperately  at  the  valise-rack, 
then  hoisted  in  the  lady  herself,  a  comfortable 
omnipresence.  She  filled  the  seat  opposite,  and, 
planted  there,  jolted  all  the  way  to  Pisa. 

211 


FORTUNATA 

Sincerely  Fortunata  blessed  her! 

Lord  and  Lady  Trevers,  with  a  maid,  a  valet,  and 
a  mountain  of  luggage,  stopped  at  the  Hotel  Superba, 
Pisa. 

The  mere  aspect  of  the  room  filled  Fortunata 
with  foreboding.  In  the  centre  of  the  high  and 
dirty  ceiling,  an  ornate,  much-bebranched  gas- 
fixture  threw  an  ungracious  light  that  beat  down  on 
the  expanse  of  bed,  a  starchy  bed,  whose  twin  pil- 
lows brutally  declared  it  for  two.  To  the  windows 
there  were  no  curtains,  only  inside  shutters  with 
melancholy  ribs.  The  inhospitable  fireplace  was 
closed  up  with  boards.  Over  the  mantel  hung  a 
chromo  of  a  lady  letting  down  her  back  hair. 

Hortense  placed  the  bridal  bouquet  in  the  water- 
pitcher's  gaping  mouth.  The  maid's  aspect  was 
portentous,  and  her  gestures  awesome.  She  gained 
on  her  mistress's  nerves,  and  Fortunata  dismissed 
for  the  night  the  faithful  servant.  The  Contessina 
passed  into  the  next  room — a  bare  parlor,  redolent 
of  plaster  and  matting.  Richard  came  in,  pushing 
the  door  to  with  his  arm.  There  was  about  him  a 
suppressed  elation. 

"Let  me  help  you  off  with  your  jacket." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  in  a  meek  voice,  like  that 
of  a  little  girl.  The  mattre  d'hotel  followed,  bearing 
in  the  supper.  He  laid  the  cloth  and  placed  the 
dishes.  The  chairs  were  drawn  confidently  on 
either  side  of  the  little  table. 

"Some  cold  chicken,  Fortunata?"  asked  Richard. 

Fortunata  seemed  heart  and  soul  with  the  man- 
agement of  the  hotel.  She  questioned  the  waiter  as 
to  the  number  of  guests — ^were  there  any  Italians? 

212 


FORTUNATA 

As  to  the  ornament  on  the  table,  a  china  porcupine 
whose  quills  served  as  toothpicks,  her  curiosity  was 
unappeasable. 

Lord  Trevers's  sombre  face  drove  the  waiter  away. 
Fortunata  saw  with  regret  the  retreating  coat-tails. 
The  door  shut.  The  table  seemed  very  narrow; 
their  knees  touched.  The  salad  stuck  in  her  throat, 
and  the  dry  lady-fingers  choked  her.  She  grew 
sadder  and  sadder,  less  and  less  brave. 

The  waiter  was  back;  he  cleared  off  the  table 
and  was  gone  again. 

Dick  came  to  his  wife  and  put  his  arms  aroimd 
her.  "My  darling,  you  are  not  going  to  sit  all 
evening  in  that  hat  and  boa?" 

"Oh,  no,  of  course  not — "  resolutely.  "I  shall 
take  it  off."     And  she  took  off  the  hat. 

"That  high  collar  must  choke  you." 

"I  shall  take  that  off,  too,"  said  Fortunata,  in  the 
reckless  voice  with  which  one  might  cry,  "Here  goes; 
I  have  no  modesty  left!"  and  she  took  off  the  collar. 
Under  the  pretence  of  laying  it  down,  she  made  the 
circuit  of  the  room,  Dick  following  in  her  steps. 
She  sat  down  gingerly  on  the  edge  of  an  arm-chair. 
She  hung  her  head,  to  accoimt  for  which  she  twiddled 
with  her  shoe-laces. 

Dick  knelt  at  her  feet  and  unlaced  her  boots.  "I 
love  to  do  these  little  things  for  you,"  he  said.  The 
harsh  light  showed  her  a  new  face.  She  found  that 
she  had  never  seen  him  before.  How  strange, 
thought  she,  here  am  I,  the  Fortunata  I  have  known 
for  twenty- two  years,  here  at  Pisa,  in  the  night,  with 
this  fair-haired  man. 

He  felt  her  gaze,  looked  up,  and  bent  across  her  to 
213 


FORTUNATA 

kiss  her.  His  fingers  grasped  her  shoulders,  passed 
down  her  arms  and  pressed  her  hands,  as  they  lay 
palms  upward  on  the  seat  of  the  chair,  pressed  them 
into  the  yielding  velvet,  down,  down!  His  lips 
seized  hers.  She  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  out  the 
stranger's  face. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

**'\JiT}iY,  it's  raining!"  Lord  Trevers  said  to  the 

V  V  groom  at  Russelford  Station.  Raining  was 
an  inadequate  word  —  the  sluices  of  heaven  were 
open. 

' '  Wery  bad  weather,  as  weVe  been  *aving,  lately, 
my  Lord.  Wery  poor  weather  for  your  Lordship's 
lady  to  see  the  country.  Never  see'd  nothing  like 
it  myself." 

Hortense,  regretful,  drooped  amid  the  luggage. 
She  had  not  straightened  her  hat  since  crossing  to 
Dover. 

Fortunata  was  exhilarated  by  the  good  smell  of 
earth,  by  the  mystery  of  the  rain,  by  the  dim  trees 
and  their  nebulous  branches.  She  had  come  into 
her  kingdom.  Thoughtfully,  under  the  hood  of  her 
coat,  she  looked  out.  In  getting  into  the  brougham, 
she  made  an  inventory.  Money  and  comfort,  but 
a  lack  of  elegance,  thought  the  future  owner.  She 
thrust  her  pretty  head  out  of  the  window.  The 
rain  beat  her  face.  She  felt  her  hair  come  out  of 
curl,  and  did  not  care.  Hospitable  England,  that 
no  moist  nor  fog  can  render  melancholy!  Groomed 
fields,  if  one  may  use  the  word;  comfortable  cows; 
sleek  beasts;  sheltered  homes  whose  thatched  roofs 
settle  on  their  four  walls,  it  seems,  with  a  blessing. 
Fortunata  remembered  that,  as  a  child,  when  traips- 

215 


FORTUNATA 

ing  about  with  her  disreputable  father,  she  had  even 
then  felt  the  peace  and  well-being  of  this  country. 

The  rain  ceased;  the  mist  lifted;  the  sun  showed 
his  face.  "That's  Goody  Bridgeman,"  said  Dick, 
nodding,  and  Fortunata  smiled  on  an  old  woman 
who  was  feeding  her  pig  beside  a  stile.  The  bucolic 
English  have  a  native  refinement.  The  owner  of 
the  pig,  the  pig  himself,  had  an  air  of  race. 

"By  George,  Fortunata,  I  first  learned  to  vault 
with  a  pole  over  this  stile.  See  that  wooded  ridge  ? 
it's  the  best  hunt  for  foxes  in  Wiltshire.  By  the  way, 
Pennam,  I  see  that  Meeker  has  filled  up  the  ditch 
where  the  chestnut  mare  sprained  her  foreleg.  How 
is  her  leg,  and  how's  Lightning  after  the  spavin, 
and  how's  my  mother  ?" 

As  the  brougham  passed,  all  the  he  and  she  farmers, 
as  in  an  English  novel,  curtsied  and  bowed.  It  is 
agreeable  to  be  curtsied  and  bobbed  to.  The  vil- 
lage and  the  belfry  church,  the  lodge  gates  on  their 
stone  columns,  the  majestic  park,  the  Elizabethan 
mansion,  formal,  gabled,  built  of  stone — they  may 
be  read  of  in  Jane  Austen  and  George  Eliot.  As  the 
beech  avenue  thickened  and  closed  in,  Richard  be- 
gan at  his  eternal,  "Mother  likes  this,"  and  "Mother 
likes  that."  He  was  evidently  nervous.  But  For- 
tunata's  courage  rose  with  danger.  She  steeled  her- 
self for  the  encounter,  although  outwardly  making 
herself  very  small,  assuming  a  gentle  and  sedate 
expression. 

Four  gaudy  peacocks  swaggered  on  the  lawn  and 
swelled  their  brazen  chests.  Self-assurance  is  the 
essential,  thought  Fortunata,  watching.  Her  or- 
deal was  passed.    She  had  found  the  Dowager  Lady 

2l6 


FORTUNATA 

Trevers  a  grenadier  of  a  woman,  cumbrously  built 
and  long  of  tooth,  a  shade  sterner  and  more  terrible 
than  even  Lady  Bolton.  Where  the  English  Am- 
bassadress was  without  hope,  her  sister  could  bum 
with  righteous  indignation.  One  was  fat  and  lym- 
phatic, in  grief  for  the  world;  the  other  emaciated 
and  austere,  with  strenuous  Christian  effort.  For- 
tunata,  accustomed  to  the  tumultuous  Italian  greet- 
ings, to  the  kisses  on  both  cheeks,  to  the  ebullitions 
of  the  South,  was  not  a  little  discomfited  when  her 
mother-in-law  merely  gave  her  a  hand  as  unre- 
sponsive as  a  dead  fish,  and  said,  with  decent  gloom: 
"The  wife  of  my  Richard  is,  of  course,  welcome, 
Fortune — ahem — Fortunia." 

" — nata,  mother  dear,"  from  the  Ladies  Gwendo- 
lyn and  Amelia.  They  were  the  counterparts  of 
the  Misses  Bolton,  the  same  genial,  kindly  creatures, 
and  they  greeted  Fortunata  cordially.  She  endured 
a  strenuous  handshaking,  for  they  were  muscular 
young  ladies. 

They  must  needs  drag  her  over  the  house  and 
show  her  the  room  where  Dick  was  bom;  the  win- 
dow he  jumped  from  to  win  a  wager;  the  roof  he 
had  walked  on  in  his  sleep — to  all  of  which  Fortunata 
answered:  "Yes,  Gwendolyn,  darling,"  and  "Yes, 
Amelia,  dear,"  while  sizing  up  her  sisters-in-law  and 
planning  her  future  campaign. 

She  found  in  her  room  what  she  guessed  to  be  a 
bathtub,  shallow  as  a  saucer  and  full  of  humps. 
Its  strange  proportions  made  her  feel  even  more  of 
an  alien  to  England. 

I  must  be  very  simple,  mused  Fortunata,  dressing 
for  dinner,   childlike  and  confiding.    Accordingly, 

217 


FORTUNATA 

she  modified  her  pompadour,  took  off  her  puffs  and 
earrings,  removed  all  traces  of  powder,  and  encased 
,her  throat  in  a  dog-collar — still  she  was  suggestively 
feminine. 

As  she  went  down  to  dinner,  leaning  on  her  hus- 
band's arm,  she  appraised  the  furniture  with  her 
keen,  dark  eyes.  Her  mother-in-law  received  her 
in  the  library,  a  wainscoted  room,  conventional  and 
luxurious.  The  Dowager  stood  in  the  firelight,  her 
head  erect,  as  gaunt  and  weather-beaten  as  a  Viking. 
In  the  farther  comer  the  Ladies  Gwendolyn  and 
Amelia  were  playing  at  tiddle-de-winks,  their  big, 
pleasant  faces  blooming  out  of  their  muslin  frocks. 

Dinner  was  announced,  and  proved  to  Fortunata 
impossibly  dull.  The  food  was  good,  the  room 
handsome,  the  plate  sumptuous,  yet  she  thought 
with  regret  of  the  scrappy  meals  of  the  Palazzo 
Colibri,  Dick  talked  of  the  crops,  a  never-ending 
theme.  He  discussed  the  cattle  and  their  ailments 
in  a  way  that  Fortunata  considered  disgusting. 
Catching  sight  of  him  through  the  ferns  of  the 
centre-piece,  of  his  high-poised,  self-sufficient  head, 
she  concluded  that  she  did  not  hke  him — no,  not  in 
the  least! 

"Richard,"  said  the  Dowager,  decapitating  a  trout 
with  the  look  of  an  executioner,  "I  am  under  the  care 
of  an  excellent  physician,  Doctor  Powell.  His  work 
is  kept  up  entirely  by  correspondence." 

"Oh,  mater,  these  quacks  get  such  a  hold  on  you." 

"You  interrupt  me,  my  son.  He  is  a  man  of 
parts.  His  elixir  for  rheumatism,  his  sunbeams  for 
headache  are  remarkable  homceopathic  remedies." 

"No  more  headaches?  Oh,  wonders  of  science!" 
218 


FORTUNATA 

warbled  Fortunata,  clasping  her  hands  and  looking 
up  with  all  the  warmth  of  Southern  enthusiasm. 
"Will  you  give  me  Doctor  Powell's  address,  Lady 
Trevers?" 

"Most  certainly,  Fortune — ahem — Fortunia." 

After  dinner,  while  the  ladies  were  drinking  coffee 
around  the  library  fire,  and  Lord  Trevers  was  left 
to  his  solitary  port:  "I  hear  that  you  smoke,  like 
all  foreign  women,"  observed  the  Dowager,  with 
that  aggressive  voice  the  English  sometimes  affect 
even  on  their  own  hearth. 

"I  did,  but  Richard  disapproves,  and  Richard's 
wishes,  Lady  Trevers,  are  law  to  me." 

"Most  Italians  dress  in  poor  style,"  said  the 
Dowager,  "but  you  have  a  sweetly  pretty  frock." 

"If  you  like  it,  I  am  glad,"  Fortunata  answered, 
with  one  of  her  irresistible  smiles,  and  from  this 
moment  the  Dowager  thawed. 

"Let's  have  some  music,"  said  Dick,  lounging  in, 
and  as  at  the  voice  of  the  Pasha,  his  sisters  flew  to 
the  piano. 

"What  shall  we  play,  Dickie?"  cried  they. 

"Oh,  something  jolly,"  said  Dick. 

"Play  'Come  Where  My  Love  Lies  Dreaming,'" 
the  Dowager  commanded,  closing  her  eyes  pre- 
paratory to  being  entranced. 

Fortunata  was  amazed  to  see  the  fierce  old  head 
rock  to  and  fro  in  enjoyment  of  music  so  maudlin. 

"Fortunata  can  play;  and  she  can  sing,  too," 
Dick  declared. 

"Oh,  Richard!"  cried  Fortunata. 

"Pray  sing,  Fortuniria,"  the  Dowager  was  kind 
enough  to  say. 

219 


FORTUNATA 

"Pray  do!"  clamored  the  girls. 

So  Fortunata  went  to  the  piano  and  played  those 
sweet,  simple  songs  that  charmed  our  grandmothers 
and  still,  at  times,  charm  us — "The  Last  Rose  of 
Summer,"  "Believe  Me  If  All  Those  Endearing 
Young  Charms,"  "Oh,  My  Darling."  As  she  sang, 
her  profile  assumed  the  delicacy  and  purity  of  a 
child's.  The  Dowager  was  moved,  the  girls  ec- 
static, Dick  very  proud. 

In  her  room  that  night  Fortunata  threw  open  the 
window.  The  rain  still  fell  incessantly,  drenching 
the  great  trees  of  the  park. 

Thousands  of  acres,  she  thought,  and  they  all  be- 
long to  me. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

FORTUNATA,  contemplating  her  mother-in-law 
next  morning  at  breakfast,  concluded  that 
she  had  never  seen  any  one  at  all  resemble  her. 
The  Dowager  did  not  look  like  a  woman  nor  a  man 
— she  was  merely  a  British  matron.  The  Dowager's 
reign  was  over,  and  vshe  needs  must  abdicate  in  favor 
of  her  daughter-in-law.  Caroline  Trevers  was  a  very 
Christian  woman ;  her  co-dwellers  were  but  too  well 
acquainted  with  the  fact.  Now,  when  supplanted, 
her  humility  was  truly  awful. 

Arrayed  in  a  camel' s-hair  wrapper,  she  waylaid 
Fortunata  in  the  hall,  and  offered  to  give  up  the 
keys  of  the  pantry,  with  an  aspect  more  forlorn 
than  that  of  the  famous  burgesses  of  Ghent,  who 
came  in  their  night-shirts  to  surrender  the  citadel. 
In  vain  did  Fortunata  waive  all  rights;  the  Dow- 
ager would  not  lay  claim  even  to  the  mattress  on 
which  she  had  slept  for  forty  years.  So  humble  was 
she  grown  that  she  dare  not  decide  questions  the 
most  trivial  without  Fortunata's  permission.  The 
daughter-in-law  must  point  out  the  exact  spot  on 
the  table-cloth  where  the  decanter  of  claret  should 
stand. 

"Don't  come  to  me,  John,  for  your  orders,"  the 
Dowager  would  say  to  the  footman.  "Go  to  her 
ladyship";  and  a  huge  person  in  canary  -  colored 

321 


FORTUNATA 

smalls  would  stalk  across  to  Fortunata,  not  a  little 
to  her  anxiety. 

"Which  is  your  favorite  —  a  brown  betty  or  a 
batter  pudding?"  the  Dowager  would  ask,  in  tones 
more  dreadful  than  Lady  Macbeth' s. 

"Why,  really,  I  don't  know;   I  hke  them  both." 

"That  is  no  answer." 

"Well,  then,  a  brown  betty,"  ventured  Fortu- 
nata,  at  random.  The  name  sounded  gypsy-like 
and  gay. 

"It  is  a  question  of  taste,"  acquiesced  the  Dow- 
ager, but  in  such  a  funereal  voice,  and  with  an  ex- 
pression so  despairing,  that  Fortunata  wished  she 
had  chosen  the  batter  pudding. 

Fortunata  was  indefatigable  in  her  efforts  to 
please.  The  chirpings  began  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning — to  her  an  ungodly  hour.  To  rise 
early  made  her  feel  ill  invariably.  Nevertheless, 
she  officiated  at  her  end  of  the  table,  her  proud 
prerogative  being  to  pour  out  the  coffee,  with  an  air 
worthy  of  the  allegorical  Peace  and  Plenty.  Break- 
fast over,  with  its  Yarmouth  bloaters  and  variegated 
jams,  the  girls  took  to  playing  Ouija  and  other  dis- 
mal and  prophetic  games. 

"Oh,  Fortunata,  do  come  and  see  Richard!"  one 
of  them  would  cry,  their  faces  plastered  to  the 
window-pane,  their  noses  turning  pale. 

And  Fortunata  must  needs  contemplate  the  tall 
young  man,  in  a  flannel  shirt,  old  knickerbockers 
and  very  dirty  boots,  directing  the  farmers,  point- 
ing a  brown  wrist  toward  the  drizzling  horizon. 
This  blond  youth  was  her  husband,  yet  he  was 
nothing  to  her.     When  he  kissed  her,  she  was  not 

222 


FORTUNATA 

that  self  she  had  always  known,  and,  fact  unbeliev- 
able, this  man  in  whose  arms  she  slept  was  to  her 
no  one — nothing.  The  line  of  the  hills  was  no  longer 
discernible.  It  had  melted  away  in  the  mist,  re- 
signed to  an  eternal  downpour.  The  curate's  carry- 
all had  passed — the  girls  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
it  through  the  foliage  of  the  park — and  Lady  Hickle- 
bury's  brougham  went  by,  spraying  mud. 

"Gingerbread  for  lunch!"  they  cried,  and  one 
might  suspect  as  much  from  a  pungent  odor  that 
pervaded  the  house.  Fortunata  was  overtaken  by 
loneliness,  by  a  yearning  for  her  own  country,  by 
an  attack  of  nostalgia. 

Oh,  Italy,  thought  Fortunata,  incomparable  land 
of  the  South! 

Fortunata  danced  attendance  on  the  Dowager. 
She  attended  her  mother-in-law  on  a  tour  of  in- 
spection. The  Dowager  Lady  Trevers  tramped  the 
fields  and  passed,  unlike  Camilla,  very  heavily  across 
the  wheat.  Ruth  and  Naomi  were  never  ^more  to- 
gether. They  visited  the  vegetable  garden,  the  hen- 
yard,  the  barn.  Fortunata  was  all  intelligent  in- 
terest. She  made  the  round  mouth  of  admiration. 
She  threw  out  countless  "Ohs!"  The  cows,  she 
said,  had  very  lovely  eyes.  How  fat  the  ducks  were, 
and  yet  how  shapely. 

The  pleasantest  hour  was  when,  the  sun  beginning 
to  decline — and  the  weather  permitting — tea  was 
served  on  the  lawn  among  the  old  elms,  to  the  caw- 
ing of  the  rooks.  Toasted  cakes,  buns,  muffins, 
were  offered  by  the  magnanimous  footmen,  with  a 
sad  and  generous  air.  Stock-on-Tremp  in  the  back- 
ground loomed  flat  as  cardboard,  like  the  fortress  of 

223 


FORTUNATA 

a  theatre.  After  tea  Fortunata  went  to  her  room. 
Sunset  is  a  dreary  hour  for  those  away  from  home. 
She  wrote  to  the  Princess  or  her  mother.  The  letter 
to  her  Excellency  was  very  jocular  always,  pro- 
digiously entertaining;  the  Contessina  poked  all 
manner  of  fun  at  her  old  bore  of  a  mother-in-law, 
at  her  wearisome  husband,  and  more  tiresome 
sisters.  To  her  mother  she  wrote  vaunting  the 
merits  of  Doctor  Powell's  Germ  Exterminator.  She 
entreated  her  to  ask  of  the  Dowager  further  particu- 
lars as  to  these  remedies.  "Please  do;  it  will  make 
us  both  so  popular,  mother  dearest,"  wrote  the  sly 
little  wretch.  Or,  else,  she  watched  the  melancholy 
northern  sunset.  Hardly  was  it  to  be  believed  that 
this  was  the  same  orb  that  blazed  down  behind  St. 
Peter's  in  purple  and  gold.  I  was  happier,  thought 
she,  before  I  got  myself  a  husband.  Indeed,  those 
were  pleasant  days  when  she  was  on  the  warpath 
and  out  for  blood.  Days  of  freedom!  Oh,  blessed 
Liberty!  The  rooks  sailed  cawing  through  the 
trees.  She  could  not  see  for  a  mist  before  her  eyes. 
Sometimes  of  an  evening  the  rain  ceased.  In  the 
long  English  twihghts  Richard  and  Fortunata  went 
for  their  walk.  When  distant  from  the  hall,  he 
would  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  at  his  side  de- 
murely she  would  go,  more  like  a  good  child  taken 
out  for  an  airing  than  an  ecstatic  bride.  They 
walked  on  the  wet  grass  and  under  the  dripping 
branches.  In  the  pasture  the  cows  lay  like  bundles, 
indistinct  in  the  mist  and  the  drizzle.  Then  Rich- 
ard would  tell  her  that  he  loved  her  and  that  she 
was  very  pretty,  which,  of  course,  was  flattering,  yet 
at  this  hour  always  she  knew  a  poignant  sadness. 

224 


FORTUNATA 

His  arm  was  about  her,  strong  to  shield;  his  heart 
that  loved  her  beat  against  her  breast,  yet  she  was 
solitary  and  regretful.  She  alone  knew  herself;  never 
— ^no,  never — could  she  love  any  one !  The  tree-toads 
were  hushed.  Everything  slept.  Only  the  anxious 
gnats  circled  about  and  fussed,  and  could  not  rest. 

"What  tedious  flies!"  Dick  would  say,  clutching 
at  the  air. 

Some  women  love  only  those  indifferent  to  them, 
and  worship  such  as  maltreat  them.  Fortunata  be- 
longed to  this  unmagnanimous  order.  Had  Dick 
beaten  her  regularly  once  a  day,  she  might  have 
grown  to  love  him,  and  have  become  an  obedient 
and  devoted  wife.  As  it  was,  the  big  blond  oaf  had 
no  discernment.  He  squandered  his  heart  on  her, 
and  thus  estranged  her  more  and  more.  He  bored 
her  to  extinction,  and  to  be  bored  Fortunata  could 
not  forgive.  To  faults  she  would  have  been  indif- 
ferent. In  crime  she  might  have  become  interested; 
but  to  such  stale  jokes  and  annoying  mannerisms 
she  could  not  reconcile  herself.  He  has  no  con- 
versation, he  has  no  ideas!  thought  the  bride. 
He  said  "Confound  it!"  or  "Fancy!"  till  she  thought 
she  would  scream.  His  way  of  speaking  her  name, 
his  "Fortunata  this"  and  "Fortunata  that"  was  a 
pain  to  her.  Talking  he  bored  her,  and  he  bored 
her  silent;  he  bored  her  laughing,  and  he  bored  her 
sulky.  He  bored  her  when  he  kissed  her,  and  he 
bored  her,  if  anything,  more  when  he  didn't;  he 
bored  her  just  sitting  there,  with  his  handsome, 
regular  features  and  big  expressionless  eyes.  He 
got  on  her  nerves  like  the  squeaking  of  a  slate- 
pencil.  Had  it  not  been  for  his  worship  of  her, 
IS  225 


FORTUNATA 

never  could  she  have  endured  him!  But  she  had 
a  just  mind.  She  had  made  a  bargain,  and  was 
anxious  to  play  fair.  He  is  very  tiresome,  thought 
she,  but  he  is  very  necessary,  and  I  shall  always  be 
polite.  She  was  invariably  gracious,  invariably  re- 
sponsive. 

One  by  one  the  inmates  of  Stock-on-Tremp  fell 
victims  to  Fortunata's  wiles.  To  stand  well  with 
the  household  she  did  not  spare  herself.  Mrs. 
Krebs,  the  housekeeper,  was  besought  to  write 
down  the  recipe  for  her  herring  patties  and  luscious 
currant  jelly. 

"We  don't  have  anything  like  that  in  Italy." 

On  being  presented  to  Farmer  Lytton's  prize  sow, 
Fortunata  expressed  the  intensest  satisfaction,  and 
vaguely  smiled  on  all  the  hayricks  in  the  field. 

With  Lady  Trevers  her  standing  was  enviable. 
She  knitted  an  antimacassar,  and  was  ciured  of  a 
violent  headache  by  three  grains  of  Doctor  Powell's 
Sunbeams.  Also,  she  ordered  the  Plutonian  Weekly, 
by  reason  of  a  graphic  picture  of  "primitive  tribes 
dying  of  famine  in  the  far  East." 

Nor  with  the  girls  was  she  less  assiduous.  In  the 
duets  hers  was  always  the  difficult  but  less  brilliant 
part.  For  their  album  she  found  mottoes  and 
stuck  in  pictures,  and  messed  herself  in  glue.  She 
marcelled  their  hair,  and  let  them  try  on  all  her 
hats;  at  the  risk  of  tearing  her  clothes,  she  played 
tag  and  blind-man's-buff. 

Fraulein  Ottilia  Schmuck,  the  German  governess 
and  companion,  alone  remained  unsubjected.  For 
Fortunata  she  entertained  that  distrust  that  all  well- 
regulated  Germans  must  feel  toward  any  one  with 

226 


FORTUNATA 

a  pretence  to  fashion  or  an  approach  to  a  waist. 
Indeed,  the  Contessina  had  rather  overlooked  the 
humble  governess,  knowing  her  of  little  consequence 
in  comparison  with  that  institution,  the  servants' 
hall.  Yet  the  poorest  retainer  may  turn  the  trend 
of  popular  feeling,  and  Fortunata  determined  to 
subjugate  Fraulein  Schmuck,  She  chose  a  time 
when  the  governess  was  practising  on  the  piano. 

' '  Te-de-te-tum !  Te-de-te-tum !"  played  Fraulein, 
happily  tmconscious,  wobbling  her  flaxen  poll  from 
side  to  side.  From  the  doorway,  "Oh,  that  divine 
Rubinstein!"  sighed  Fortunata,  in  fluent  German. 
There  exists  a  British  prejudice  to  an  over  amount 
of  culture.  Fraulein  turned,  startled  and  distrust- 
ful, yet  stirred  in  spite  of  herself  by  her  mother 
tongue.  Fortunata  came  across  until  only  the  table 
stood  between  them,  then  she  said:  "I  have  often 
thought  we  should  be  friends.  We  are  both  stran- 
gers here,  both  lonely,  so  far,  each,  from  her  own 
country,  each  always  thinking  of  her  own  father- 
land." She  smiled,  half-pleadingly,  as  she  leaned 
across  the  table  and  stretched  out  her  straight  white 
hand.  Poor,  sentimental  Fraulein  Schmuck  was  im- 
mediately disarmed.     She  seized  it  in  both  her  own: 

"Ach  ja,  gnadige  Frau!    Ach  ja!" 

She  blushed  very  much  and  shed  her  ready  Ger- 
man tears.  From  that  day  forth  Fraulein  was  For- 
tunata's  sworn  slave,  waited  on  her  abjectly,  and 
followed  her  every  gesture  with  gentle,  foolish  eyes. 

Fortunata  enjoyed  herself  hugely,  coquetting 
with  the  Church  of  England.  She  would  advance 
almost  into  the  arms  of  the  Protestant  faith,  then 
draw  coyly  back.    To  convert  her,  she  had  half  the 

227 


FORTUNATA 

clergy  in  Wiltshire,  not  to  mention  her  mother-in- 
law.  Fortunata  was  popular  always  with  religious 
people.  The  clergy  could  never  withstand  her. 
The  deplorable  falling  away  of  the  church,  the  ethics 
and  the  creed  gave  her  fine  opportunities  for  talk. 
She  assumed  the  opposed  view,  argued  warmly, 
grew  imcertain,  hesitated,  said,  "  Now  that  you  put 
it  to  me  that  way — "  listened,  edified;  across  her 
pretty  face  dawned  the  smile  of  faith. 

"Though  your  wife,  Richard,  shows  the  grossest 
ignorance  of  spiritual  facts,  and  though  her  relatives 
are  such  that  —  well,  really"  —  and  the  Dowager 
discreetly  left  the  comparison  unfinished — "still  she 
humbly  admits  her  shortcomings;  she  wants  to 
mend;  she  means  well.  Indeed,  Richard,  I  believe 
her  to  be  a  young  woman  of  high  principle  and  very 
fair  intelligence." 

What  praise!  Dick  was  light-headed.  He  came 
to  his  wife:  "Mother  says  that  you  are  so  sweet, 
so  good." 

Fortunata  smiled  at  him  in  her  gentle  way.  She 
answered:    "I  try  to  be." 

The  Ladies  Gwendolyn  and  Amelia  were  infatu- 
ated with  their  sister-in-law.  They  clamored  for 
her  hats,  her  stays,  her  false  curls.  They  bounced 
into  her  room  without  so  much  as  by  your  leave. 

"One  or  the  other,"  wrote  Fortunata  to  her  aunt, 
"is  always  at  my  side,  sticking  to  me.  The  Siamese 
twins  must  have  got,  oh,  so  bored  with  each  other! 
The  only  peace  I  know  is  in  my  bathtub!" 

Fortunata  found  the  time  tedious.  Since  there 
were  no  distractions,  she  planned  and  worked  for 
the  future.    Her  husband,  she  determined,  must  be 

228 


FORTUNATA 

fired  with  ambition  for  a  diplomatic  career.     His 
lethargic  nature  dismayed  her. 

"Dear  Dick,"  she  said,  "if  Lord  Bolton  would 
only  resign,  and  the  first  attache  be  dismissed,  and 
Hawley  and  Lord  Kerryford  die  off,  with  a  little 
care  and  a  little  cleverness  you  could  be  ambassador 
in  no  time." 

"Hang  it,  Fortunata,  what  for?"  exclaimed  Lord 
Trevers.  "To  work  like  a  navvy,  to  have  all  the 
responsibility,  no  more  good  times,  and  all  the  ser- 
vice to  jaw  at  me." 

Narrow  mind,  mused  Fortunata;  limited  out- 
look! And  she  went  on  braiding  her  hair,  for  it 
was  bedtime.  Richard  stood  behind  her,  looking 
fondly  down  on  the  crown  of  her  head.  He  was  in 
his  shirt-sleeves;  a  lack  of  coat  is  unbecoming  to 
the  vulgar,  but  a  gentleman  can  stand  the  test. 

"Fortunata,  you  would  hardly  beheve  it,  but  at 
times  I  am  almost  tempted  to  give  up  diplo- 
macy." 

"My  dearest  husband,  what  madness!"  the  little 
schemer  exclaimed.  "Why,  Lord  Bolton  could 
never  get  over  your  loss!"  And  she  added,  watch- 
ing in  the  glass  Richard's  face:  "You  are  so  clever, 
you  have,  when  you  want  to,  such  tact.  If  you 
would  only  be  a  little  more — what  shall  I  say — 
well,  a  little  more  affable  with  the  Italian  attaches, 
and  the  French,  and  the  rest  of  them."  Richard 
was  at  a  loss  to  understand  how  a  well-bred  Eng- 
lishman could  waste  his  time  and  thought  on  such 
foreign  vermin.  In  vain  did  Fortunata  point  out 
that  the  wise  Providence  who  had  created  English- 
men had  brought  into  being,  for  some  undoubted 

229 


FORTUNATA 

use,  the  people  of  the  Continent.  "And  don't  for- 
get, dearest,  that  I  am  half  Italian." 

"Never,  never,  would  one  think  it!"  exclaimed 
the  enamoured  Richard,  caressing  with  both  hands 
Fortunata's  little  triangle  of  a  face. 

"Ah,  am  I  then  so  EngHsh?"  breathed  she,  with 
a  sinking  of  the  heart. 

"You  look  Uke  a  sweet  English  girl,  the  sweetest 
I  have  ever  seen." 

Alas!  blundering  Richard.  "Sweet"  and  "Eng- 
lish" were  two  adjectives  particularly  displeasing 
to  the  modish  Fortunata. 

"  I  am  too  adaptable,"  mused  she;  "true  love  sees 
with  its  own  eyes.  Yet  this  land  of  rain  and  ga- 
loshes has  stamped  me  already.  One  week  more, 
and  my  skirt  will  sag  behind  h  la  Gwendolyn.  It  is 
time  I  was  gone  to  you,  Italia  bellissima,  country  of 
the  sun  and  of  the  fountains  and  of  the  nightingales, 
home  of  the  lazzarone,  of  all  filth,  of  the  chiming  of 
bells — to  you,  country  of  my  heart!" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

FORTUNATA  was  far  from  prudish,  and  ac- 
customed to  hear  the  most  delicate  matters 
discussed  openly  after  the  Italian  fashion;  still,  she 
was  quite  unprepared  for  her  mother-in-law's  frank 
concern  and  candid  speculation,  which  neither  time 
nor  company  could  repress,  as  to  there  being  as  yet 
no  promise  of  an  heir  to  Lord  Trevers's  estate. 
The  Dowager's  dreadful  questions,  the  waggings 
of  her  mournful  head,  and  her  eternal  reference  to 
Doctor  Powell,  threw  Fortunata  into  agonies  of 
embarrassment . 

"Richard  wishes  a  son  first,"  the  Dowager  would 
say.  To  hear  her  one  would  think  that  Richard's 
wishes  were  omnipotent.  "And  so,  of  course,  I  sup- 
pose, do  you?" 

"Oh  yes,  of  course,"  said  Fortunata,  but  with 
a  glum  face,  for  the  Contessina  was  not  devoted  to 
children.  "And,  indeed,"  she  was  wont  to  say, 
"why  should  I  be?"  Isn't  it  too  annoying,  she 
mused,  that  a  woman  of  my  beauty  and  talent  should 
be  called  on  to  have  a  family;  almost  any  one  can 
do  that. 

During  the  afternoon,  if  the  downpour  ceased,  the 
Dowager's  landau,  a  respectable,  generous-looking 
conveyance,  drew  up  at  the  door.  The  four  ladies 
went  a-driving  through  the  pleasant  English  lanes. 

231 


FORTUNATA 

The  green  of  the  foliage  refreshed  Fortunata's 
beauty-loving  spirit.  The  Dowager  passed  through 
the  village,  visited  the  bed-ridden  old  women  and 
lent  tracts,  after  the  approved  manner  of  the  nobil- 
ity in  fiction.  Goody  Someone  in  her  brick  kitchen 
told  the  Ladies  from  the  Hall  of  her  aches  and  her 
pains  and  rheumatism.  Fortunata's  glance  strayed 
into  the  garden  where  sturdy,  fair -haired  children 
were  playing,  and  she  smiled  her  sweet  3^oung 
smile  at  them.  She  suffered,  and  from  a  terrible 
malady — that  of  ennui.  To  forge  ahead  by  one's 
wits,  to  dance  out  one's  unpaid-for  shoes,  is  thrilling 
and  worth  while;  but  oh,  the  paralyzing  sadness 
of  this  present  humdrum,  respectable,  comfortable 
existence ! 

After  dinner,  a  formal  meal,  with  the  footmen  in 
plush,  and  when  humble  Schmuck  had  been  ban- 
ished to  feed  herself  and  re-read  her  mother's  let- 
ters, Gwendolyn  would  draw  the  covering  from  the 
harp.  She  could  perform,  and  with  variations, 
"The  Harp  That  Once  through  Tara's  Halls."  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  that  harp  was  rarely  still.  She 
clasped  the  strings  with  her  arms  and  grasped 
the  frame  with  her  knees,  as  though  shinning  up 
a  tree.  Or,  else,  of  an  evening  Gwendolyn  and 
Amelia  fatigued  the  piano  with  their  hurry-up 
duets.  Lord  and  Lady  Trevers  faced  each  other 
at  Authors  or  Logomachy.  To  beat  Richard  was 
hardly  worth  while.  Lord  Trevers,  habitually  an 
earnest,  conscientious  opponent,  was  now  so  proud 
of  his  wife,  that  only  his  love  of  fair  play  kept  him 
from  cheating  in  her  favor. 

"Dear  me!"  says  the  Dowager,  reading  from  the 
232 


FORTUNATA 

Plutonian  Weekly,  "the  Congregated  Idiots  hold 
their  annual  picnic  on  the  fifth,"  or,  from  a  pam- 
phlet, "Girls,  your  friend.  Miss  Abbot-Newton,  has 
another  little  brother." 

"Oh,  mamma,  she  has  too  many  already!"  cries 
Amelia. 

' '  Too  man  y !  A  most  offensive  observation , ' '  says 
the  Dowager;  "our  best  families  are  dying  out. 
The  duty  of  every  female  connected  with  the  Brit- 
ish aristocracy — " 

"Cat!"  says  Fortunata,  playing  logomachy. 

"Only  one  T,  Fortunata,"  reproves  Richard. 

On  other  evenings  the  Dowager  had  whist  parties. 
Bridge  had  not  yet  penetrated  the  old  skulls  of 
those  invited.  Grim  Lady  Hicklebury  drove  over 
from  the  park,  and  several  red-gilled  gentlemen  with 
their  ladies  sat  down  to  penny  points,  looking  very 
sad.  Lady  Trevers  had  completely  won  her  mother- 
in-law  by  learning  whist.  Fortunata  was  a  flighty 
player,  though  with  inspirations  of  genius.  In  her 
lapses  of  memory  she  asked,  "What  is  trumps?" 
then  drifted  into  dreams.  With  what  burnings  of 
the  heart  did  she  regret  her  frivolous  nights  of  old. 
Ah,  those  waltzes  divine,  when  the  roses  she  wore, 
crushed  against  the  heart  of  her  partner,  gave  out 
their  fragrance!  Then  her  feet,  untiring,  danced 
through  the  dawn  to  the  stirring  shrillness  of  the  violin. 
Perfume,  are  you  lost  ?  music,  are  you  stilled  forever  ? 

"I  take  your  queen!"  cries  the  Dowager,  in  the 
voice  of  a  policeman  arresting  a  robber,  and  Fortu- 
nata, brought  back  to  the  meaningless  array  of 
black  and  red  spots,  sees  all  the  legless  court  dance 
in  a  haze. 

233 


FORTUNATA 

Steadily  fell  the  rain!  One  might  have  thought 
the  allegorical  windows  of  heaven  were  once  again 
opened.  The  dining-room  was  funereal.  The  long, 
white  table  shone  like  a  pall.  The  paper  rosettes  on 
the  mutton  chops  drooped  in  a  deep  dejection.  The 
butler,  grown  fat  and  asthmatic,  creaked  about  with 
the  heavings  of  a  mournful  hippopotamus.  Nor  did 
the  hostess's  aspect  tend  to  enliven  the  banquet — 
her  head,  enswathed  in  an  immense  turban,  gave 
her  the  aspect  of  a  fierce  and  gloom-struck  Saracen. 
On  the  fish  being  handed,  a  voice  from  the  turban 
hoped  that  the  rain  would  cease.  At  coffee  the  tur- 
ban feared  that  if  the  rain  should  continue  the  crops 
would  be  entirely  rotted.  It  is  no  easy  task  to  act 
at  once  the  talker  and  the  listener — to  be  as  it  were 
a  social  ventriloquist;  but  Fortunata,  undaunted, 
performed  this  feat.  She  burst  into  a  monologue; 
she  discoursed  with  animation,  with  head  flung 
back;  her  features  glowed  with  their  usual  excessive 
pallor,  her  eyes  flashed;  she  spread  her  arms  in  the 
large  Italian  gestures.  She  discussed  at  random 
missionary  work  in  the  chilling  cHmate  of  Labra- 
dor, the  merits  of  homoeopathic  treatment,  Richard's 
resemblance  to  a  bust  of  one  of  the  earlier  Roman 
emperors.  The  questions  asked  by  herself  she  volu- 
bly answered.  At  her  own  remarks  she  expressed 
the  politest  interest  or  the  most  boundless  surprise. 
With  eloquence  she  grew  light-headed.  What  an 
able  statesman,  thought  she,  I  should  have  made; 
and  a  shade  of  sadness  came  over  her  as  at  wasted 
capabilities.  The  Dowager  forgot  all  austerity,  hyp- 
notized by  such  a  flow  of  language.  In  the  shade 
of  the  turban  she  rolled  the  eyes  of  the  mesmerized, 

234 


FORTUNATA 

"To -day,"  said  the  Dowager,  "the  Bishop  is 
coming  to  dine." 

"The  Bishop!"  cried  Fortunata.  "Oh,  how  de- 
Ughtful!" 

"My  Lord  Bishop  of  Halsbury,"  continued  the 
Dowager,  "has  done  much  good." 

"Oh,  I  am  dying  to  meet  him!" 

"I  hope  that  you  will  talk  with  him,  Fortunata,'* 
said  Dick,  looking  at  his  mother. 

"I  hope  that  he  will  talk  to  me,"  quoth  Fortu- 
nata. 

Mother  and  son  interchanged  a  glance. 

They  want  to  convert  me!  thought  Fortunata. 
And  all  day  long  she  was  so  happy,  she  said,  think- 
ing about  the  Bishop. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  playing  a  part  over-well. 
Fortunata' s  emotion  at  the  prospect  of  meeting  the 
Bishop  was  a  trifle  too  profound.  One  may  be  car- 
ried away  by  histrionic  talent.  Like  all  artists,  she 
was  gifted  with  an  astonishing  intuition  of  character. 
She  was,  nevertheless,  in  her  self-appreciation,  apt 
to  underrate  others.  She  found  it  easy  to  deceive, 
and  as  she  did  not  credit  any  one  with  a  sense  of  the 
grotesque,  rarely  exerted  her  subtlety.  On  her  hus- 
band, who  in  her  heart  she  had  summed  up  as  an 
entire  fool,  she  passed  off  the  grossest  artifices  and 
most  palpable  lies.  She  was  wrong.  Richard  was 
not  unintelligent.  He  awoke  at  moments  to  a  realiza- 
tion of  situations,  to  a  grasping  of  motives.  Coming 
from  his  lethargic  nature,  intuition  astonished,  as 
might  the  flash  of  a  meteor  in  a  leaden  sky. 

"My  Lord  Bishop!"  announced  the  butler.  A 
jolly  old  gentleman,  with  a  shock  of  white  hair  and 

235 


FORTUNATA 

as  rotund  as  Santa  Claus,  came  bobbing  into  the 
room. 

"Dear  Bishop!"  said  the  Dowager. 

"Dear  Lady  Trevers!  And  how  is  Richard?" 
asked  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Halsbury,  shaking  hands 
with  Dick. 

"I  am  well;  but  I  have  had  a  cold,"  answered 
Lord  Trevers. 

"My  daughter-in-law,  Bishop,"  said  the  Dowager, 
with  a  glowing  tenderness — "my  dear  Fortunata!" 

The  Bishop  made  a  bow  and  Fortunata  a  curtsey, 
the  demurest  ever  seen. 

"I  am  charmed!"  murmured  the  Bishop. 

"And  I,"  said  Fortunata.  Whereupon  she  gave 
him  her  hand.  He  liked  all  young,  pretty  creatures. 
Soon  they  were  the  firmest  of  friends.  The  clergy 
never  could  withstand  Fortunata.  Such  a  passing 
of  compliments,  such  a  bowing  and  bending  as  took 
place  during  dinner  between  my  Lord  Bishop  and 
Fortunata!    Such  smiles,  such  pretty  speeches! 

"Champagne?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Fortunata. 

"My  daughter-in-law  never  takes  wine,  Bishop," 
announced  the  Dowager. 

"I  don't  care  for  the  taste,"  murmured  Fortunata, 
with  the  upward  look  of  a  seraph. 

But  when  after  dinner  the  Bishop  singled  her  out 
where  she  sat  by  the  fire,  and  leaving  the  other 
guests,  mere  bucolic  gentry,  came  across  to  talk 
with  her,  she  changed  her  tactics.  At  first  sight 
she  had  discovered  that  he  was  a  genial,  pleasant 
Bishop,  who  gave  not  a  rap  for  her  religion,  and 
would  not  care  to  convert  her  if  he  could.     He  had 

236 


FORTUNATA 

been  to  Italy,  and  loved  it.  They  talked  of  Rome. 
In  spite  of  herself,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the 
familiar  names.  It  was  pretty  to  see  the  old  clergy- 
man and  Fortunata,  her  head  like  a  flower  turned 
toward  him,  both  smiling  delightedly. 

When  the  company  was  gone,  ' '  Nice  old  boy,  the 
Bishop,"  declared  Dick. 

"His  sermons  are  admirable,"  announced  the 
Dowager. 

"He  is  kind,  I  am  sure,"  said  Fortunata,  "and 
good." 

In  marrying,  Fortunata  had  believed  that  she 
saw  through  her  husband  like  glass,  that  she  could 
wind  him  like  a  thread  around  her  finger.  She  was 
quickly  disillusioned.  His  simplicity  was  more  ap- 
parent than  real,  an  effect  given  by  his  British 
manner — like  certain  puzzles  that  to  the  eye  seem 
easy,  but,  when  studied,  prove  baffling.  To  grasp 
what  Richard  meant,  she  had  to  readjust  her  views, 
and  even  then  she  did  not  always  understand  him. 

Lord  Trevers  bred  cattle  and  horses.  He  was 
forever  vaunting  the  perfection  of  his  stock.  A  colt 
had  a  blemish  and  ended  in  the  shambles.  Illness, 
weakness,  infirmity  shocked  him  as  things  indecent. 
One  morning  Richard  and  she,  when  walking,  had 
met  a  boy  painfully  lame,  dragging  along  on  his 
crutches.  Fortunata  had  stopped  to  talk  with  the 
child,  touched  by  that  fragile,  appealing  combina- 
tion of  youth  and  illness.  All  the  while  Dick  kept 
murmuring  "Come  on!"  The  child  passed.  Look- 
ing up  at  her  husband,  Fortunata  was  arrested  by 
his  expression  of  pain  and  irritation. 

"I  can't  understand,"  he  said,  "the  pleasure 
237 


FORTUNATA 

women  take  in  talking  to  cripples  and  deformed 
children.  I  call  it  beastly.  People  like  that  boy 
ought  to  keep  out  of  sight.  I  put  health  before 
beauty.  It  is  your  soundness,  your  perfection,  I 
like  in  you." 

She  was  not  pleased,  but  smiled  up  at  him,  sure 
of  a  perennial  charm. 

As  for  his  wiU,  it  was  of  iron.  Once  he  was  de- 
termined, protestations,  tears,  moved  him  no  more 
than  the  wind.  In  no  relationship  had  Fortunata 
ever  before  been  the  weaker.  As  for  his  faults,  she 
came  across  them  constantly — a  thick-skinned  insen- 
sibility, a  lack  of  tact  and  gentleness  that  amounted 
almost  to  brutality. 

Rover  was  Richard's  favorite  dog — a  prize  setter, 
now  old,  a  venerable  and  kindly  animal.  In  his 
visits  to  the  village  he  had  met  with  misfortune. 
Some  malicious  person  had  thrown  scalding  water 
over  him.  It  was  sad  to  see  the  poor  beast,  his 
back  one  great  sore.  With  time  he  grew  better,  the 
skin  healed,  but  the  hair  refused  to  grow.  One 
morning  Fortunata,  out  earlier  than  usual,  came 
across  her  husband  and  the  keeper.  The  men  were 
leaning  on  their  guns,  talking  together  and  looking 
at  Rover,  who  sat  gravely  between  them. 

"Dick!"  called  Fortunata. 

Lord  Trevers  turned  and,  with  his  quick,  pleas- 
ant smile,  came  to  her. 

"Go  back.  Rover!"  he  said  to  the  dog,  who  wanted 
to  foUow  him. 

Something  in  his  face  made  her  ask:  "What  is 
the  matter  with  Rover?" 

He  hesitated,  then  told  her:  "I  have  decided  to 
238 


FORTUNATA 

have  him  killed.  Oh,  he  won't  suffer;  it  will  be 
over  in  a  flash." 

In  Fortunata  everj^hing  revolted.  It  seemed  to 
her  a  brutal  crime. 

"Oh,  Richard,  how  can  you,  your  old  friend?" 

**  I  don't  believe  in  having  maimed  animals  about." 

"But  he  doesn't  suffer;  he  enjoys  himself  so," 
she  pleaded,  with  tears  in  her  voice,  "Poor  dumb 
beast!  If  you  had  seen  the  way  he  was  looking  at 
you  when — ^just  now — to  kill  him  because  he  isn't 
pretty  any  more!     Oh,  it's  wicked!" 

"I  think  it  right,"  Lord  Trevers  answered,  and 
obstinately  refused  to  meet  her  eyes. 

I  cannot  make  him  change,  she  thought,  and  a 
kind  of  chill  passed  over  her — a  premonition  of  evil. 

When  the  Dowager  and  the  girls  heard  the  story, 
they  set  up  a  turmoil  as  at  the  murder  of  an  old 
friend.  Even  his  mother  could  not  think  Richard 
in  the  right.  The  women  assailed  him  with  cries 
of  regret  and  horror.  Lord  Trevers  kept  in  perfect 
humor,  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  lolled  on  his 
spine  and  smoked.  "You  are  all  talking  sentiment, 
unhealthy  bathos.  If  you  women  had  more  ex- 
perience you  would  know  the  world  isn't  for  the 
weak;   the  cripples  must  go  to.  the  wall." 

"For  shame!"  cried  Fortunata.  "If  one  of  us 
were  to  go  blind,  for  instance,  would  you  have  us 
killed?" 

"That's  silly!"  cried  Richard,  always  annoyed  by 
a  call  on  his  imagination.  "Besides,  it  would  be 
murder.  The  law  wouldn't  allow  it.  But  I  will 
tell  you  one  thing:  the  way  of  our  institutions,  our 
asylums,  are  run  is  a  disgrace — a  blot  on  England. 

239 


FORTUNATA 

Why,  mother,  will  you  believe  it,  near  Birmingham 
there  is  an  institution  for  the  blind;  blind  children 
are  brought  up  there,  and  intermarry.  Think  of 
the  race  they  breed.  By  Jove!  It  makes  me  ill!" 
He  stretched  out  his  long  legs,  stood  up  and  lounged 
out. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THIS  is  a  grave,  thought  Fortunata  —  a  grave 
where  the  post  comes.  How  sad  to  spend  one's 
life  with  a  husband,  an  old  British  female  and  her 
tiresome  daughters! 

Yet  she  let  slip  no  opportunities;  she  learned  to 
drive  tandem,  in  spite  of  rain  and  fog.  On  horse- 
back she  took  the  highest  leaps  in  the  country.  She 
visited  the  nobility  and  the  gentry  about;  made  a 
conquest  of  old  Lady  Hicklebury.  Her  Ladyship 
led  Fortunata  over  the  Hicklebury  Park  and  pointed 
out  a  labyrinth  where,  rumor  said,  King  Charles  the 
First  had  been  hid.  All  such  legends  Fortunata 
learned  by  heart,  and  told  very  prettily.  Lord 
Trevers  declared  that  she  knew  more  of  Wiltshire 
than  he  himself. 

Lady  Hicklebury,  the  sun  growing  affable  and 
showing  his  face,  gave  a  garden-party  in  Fortunata's 
honor.  The  county  people  came  from  every  side 
in  chaises  and  dog-carts,  in  jolly  coaches,  and  dusty 
sea-going  landaus ;  all  the  young  ladies  of  the  county 
were  there  in  lawn  dresses  that  did  not  disguise 
their  blue  elbows.  Fortunata  was  not  a  little  re- 
freshed by  the  sight  of  a  few,  a  very  few,  young 
men — officers  in  the  Indian  service.  She  was  happy, 
and  flirted  outrageously. 

Lord  Trevers  strode  away  from  her  across  the 

16  241 


FORTUNATA 

lawn — taller  and  bigger  and  handsomer  than  any 
one  else,  but  very  sombre  about  the  brow. 

Satisfied,  she  watched  him.  He  was  the  cleanest, 
the  best -groomed  mortal,  with  the  quick,  active 
grace  of  a  man  hardened  by  physical  exercise.  He 
had  about  him  that  indescribable  look  of  the  world. 
A  tendency  to  near-sightedness  gave  him  the  air  of 
a  personage.  So  satisfied  was  he  with  his  appear- 
ance as  to  forget  it.  Fortimata  concluded  that  she 
might  well  have  found  a  more  repellent  husband. 

"Who  is  that  lady?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  a  tall 
woman,  who  in  yards  and  yards  of  lace,  much  over- 
dressed, and  burdened  with  jewels,  was  traipsing 
about  in  the  middle  of  the  lawn. 

"Violet  Gillespie,  by  Jove !"  said  one  of  the  officers, 
putting  up  his  eye-glass. 

"Violet  is  well  with  the  world  now,  since  the 
Bishop's  wife  has  taken  her  up." 

"Sly  little  Violet!"  laughed  the  other,  in  ad- 
miration. 

"She's  giving  a  ball,  I  hear,  and,  mark  me,  she'll 
have  the  very  best  people." 

Fortunata  was  at  once  attracted  by  Mrs.  Gillespie, 
but  on  nearer  inspection  thought  her  splendor  a 
little  tarnished.  Her  diamonds  were  a  trifle  yellow, 
her  turquoises  a  trifle  green.  In  short,  the  lady  her- 
self was  a  shade  off-color.  As  she  drove  home  with 
Richard  in  the  dog-cart,  followed  by  the  Dowager 
and  her  daughters  in  the  victoria,  "Why  do  so 
many  people  disapprove  of  Mrs.  Gillespie,  Dick.?" 
she  inquired. 

"She  has  the  worst  reputation,"  replied  Richard, 
gloomily— for  to  his  taste  his  wife  had  been  over- 

242 


FORTUNATA 

winning  with  the  officers.  "She  is  fast  and  loud 
and  bad  style." 

"Gracious!"  exclaimed  Fortunata,  much  im- 
pressed.    "She  is  going  to  give  a  ball." 

"Well,  she  will  get  none  of  us,"  Lord  Trevers  de- 
clared, in  a  tone  that  meant  "and  serve  her  right, 
too." 

At  dinner  Fortunata  harped  on  this  string.  "Mrs. 
Gillespie  does  not  seem  popular,  Lady  Trevers." 

"She's  a  divorced  woman,"  the  Dowager  made 
answer,  soup-ladle  in  hand,  fishing  sadly  in  the 
tureen. 

"Oh!"  cried  Fortunata,  interested.  She  was 
about  to  ask  more,  when  her  mother-in-law  rolled 
up  her  eyes  in  warning,  as  if  to  say,  "Remember  the 
chaste  ears  of  my  daughters!" 

"I  wonder,"  hazarded  Fortunata,  nibbling  her 
bread,  like  an  intelligent  squirrel — "I  wonder  if  Mrs. 
Gillespie  will  ask  us  to  her  ball?" 

"That  to  me  is  a  matter  of  complete  indifference," 
sternly  replied  the  Dowager.  ' '  Our  family  and  that 
of  Colonel  Gillespie  have  been  at  odds  since  the  time 
of  James  the  First." 

"Time  does  fly,  of  course,"  Fortunata  acquiesced, 
"but  that  does  seem  rather  far  back." 

"Should  Mrs.  Gillespie  so  far  forget  herself  and 
her  past  as  to  send  an  invitation  to  my  son's  house 
— Richard,  none  of  us  ever  have  or  ever  shall  pass 
that  woman's  threshold." 

"There,  Fortunata,  you  hear  mother." 

Fortunata  answered,  "Yes,  dear,"  but  she  could 
hardly  refrain  from  throwing  her  chop  at  him. 

In  good  time  the  invitations  came.  Fortunata 
243 


FORTUNATA 

coaxed,  she  wheedled:  "Just  for  a  moment,  Dickon 
dearest!  Just  to  see  how  they  waltz  in  England — 
if  they  all  dance  as  well  as  you  do!" 

"You  shall  not  go!"  said  Dick;  and  he  brought  his 
hand  down  so  heavily  on  the  table  that  it  trembled. 

"I  shall  not  go?"  repeated  Fortunata,  in  a  per- 
plexed voice.  Indeed,  she  was  utterly  astonished 
that  any  one  should  dare  to  lay  down  the  law  to 
her.  A  wave  of  anger  swept  over  her,  so  intense 
that  her  knees  trembled;  yet  her  expression  was 
not  changed,  for  when  really  moved  her  features 
turned  mask-like  and  varied  not  an  atom.  Only 
imder  her  eyes  black  shadows  spread  slowly.  With 
head  inclined,  she  stood  swaying  gently  from  side 
to  side,  hke  a  child  repeating  a  lesson.  Under  her 
fair  hair  she  glanced  from  her  husband  to  his  mother 
with  grave,  questioning  eyes.  These  singular  eyes 
of  hers  had  in  general  on  poor  Richard  a  magical 
effect,  yet  now  he  did  not  waver,  though  a  deep 
brick  color  flushed  his  face  and  forehead.  As  for 
the  Dowager,  she  sat  primly  upright,  the  comers 
of  her  mouth  drawn  in  and  wearing  the  expression  of 
one  who  in  company  inadvertently  swallows  a  pickle. 

"Fortunata,  you  understand  me,"  from  Dick 
again,  "you  shall  not  go";  and  thump — once  more 
the  table  trembled. 

Fortunata  said  nothing.  By  her  expression  one 
would  have  judged  her  profoundly  pensive.  After 
a  moment  she  turned  and  walked  away  slowly, 
with  head  bent,  as  though  lost  in  deep  thought. 

It  was  the  date  of  Colonel  Gillespie's  ball,  and 
Fortunata  thought  the  country  looked  more  awake 

244 


FORTUNATA 

— the  trees  on  the  watch,  the  birds  brighter,  as 
though  on  the  lookout  for  the  train  of  carriages  that 
must  pass. 

That  night  at  dinner  she  declared  that  she  felt  far 
from  well .  She  complained  of  a  headache — neuralgia , 
she  thought. 

"Like  your  headaches  before  we  were  married?" 
questioned  Lord  Trevers,  anxiously. 

"Somewhat  the  same.  The  pain  shoots  down  like 
this,"  drawing  her  finger  along  her  cheek, 

"Perhaps  it  is  a  tooth,"  suggested  Richard. 

"Certainly  not!"  —  very  coldly,  for  Fortunata 
prided  herself,  and  with  reason,  on  her  sound,  beau- 
tiful teeth. 

"A  face-ache,  possibly,"  suggested  the  Dowager. 

Fortunata  indignantly  denied  an  ailment  so 
plebeian. 

"If  you  will  excuse  me.  Lady  Trevers,  I  will  go 
to  my  room.  Richard,  I  shall  take  a  little  chloral 
and  sleep  through  the  night,  and  wake  cured.  If 
I  want  anything,  I  shall  ring." 

"Fortunata,"  warned  the  Dowager,  in  a  voice  of 
an  ogress,  "you  are  very  foolish,  very  wicked,  to 
take  those  strong  drugs.  Try  Doctor  Powell's  Sleep- 
giver — homoeopathic,  harmless,  and  soothing." 

' '  You  are  right,  Lady  Trevers,  as  you  always  are ; 
I  will  give  up  my  chloral.  But  to-night  let  me  be 
weak.  Dick,  you  won't  knock  at  my  door  to  ask 
how  I  am — it  would  disturb  me,  dear." 

The  pretty  little  sufferer  kissed  her  relatives  good- 
night tenderly,  and  went  to  her  room. 

"Quick,  Hortense,"  she  cried — "my  dress!" 

Satin  enfolded  her.  The  inestimable  Trevers  dia- 
245 


FORTUNATA 

monds  were  sprinkled  through  her  hair  Hke  the  stars 
of  Ariadne's  tiara.  She  no  longer  knew  herself  for 
the  simple  girl  of  the  last  few  months,  with  her 
modest  dresses  and  choking  collars — for  the  sweet 
young  wife.  Hortense,  mysterious  as  an  assassin, 
went  forth  to  reconnoitre.  Fortunata  felt  some 
shame  at  thus  conspiring  with  a  servant.  The  maid 
delighted  in  representing  Monsieur  Milord  as  a 
monster  of  unkindness.  She  returned,  making  the 
boards  creak  with  her  cautious  feet,  and  announced 
in  a  stage-whisper  that  the  hall  was  empty. 

As  Lady  Trevers  turned  to  go,  she  looked  back 
proudly  into  the  glass  over  her  shoulder,  as  though 
to  say,  "England,  I  defy  you  to  find  such  another 
woman!"  Noiselessly  as  a  shadow  she  passed  down 
the  stairs,  turned  the  corner,  and — there  stood  her 
husband!  Pale  with  fright,  she  fell  back  against 
the  balustrade;  her  heart  beat  a  retreat,  throbbing 
like  a  muffled  drum. 

"Great  heavens,  Fortunata,  how  white  you  are!" 
And  he  went  into  all  manner  of  exaggerations  over 
her  health — she  was  worse,  seriously  ill;  she  must 
see  the  doctor.     It  was  that  apple-tart. 

"I  am  better.  I  came  to  tell  you  that  I  am  bet- 
ter," she  chirped,  with  the  false  sprightliness  in- 
spired by  anxiety  and  guilt. 

"Why  have  you  on  these  heavy  things  ?"  he  asked, 
touching  her  cloak  and  the  scarf  that  tied  her  hair. 

"I  am  cold,"  she  faltered,  beginning  to  shiver. 
And  now,  as  fate  would  have  it,  the  groom  outside, 
hearing  Lady  Trevers's  voice,  opened  the  door  and 
announced,  "The  carriage,  my  Lady!" 

"The  carriage?    Where  are  you  going?" 
246 


FORTUNATA 

"Where  am  I  going?  Where  am  I  going?"  re- 
peated Fortunata,  with  a  dreadful  blandness.  Her 
haggard  gaze  ran  up  the  wall  to  a  portrait  of  a 
Trevers  —  a  mitred  abbot  who  sat  in  state  in  his 
robes. 

"Where  are  you  going  at  this  time  of  night? 
Answer  me,  Fortunata!" 

She  brought  her  glance  down  to  his — very  limpid, 
pure,  and  lovely  were  her  eyes.  Her  answer  was 
"To  the  Bishop's." 

"To  the  Bishop's  at  this  hour?" 

"Yes;  odd  time,  isn't  it?"  she  agreed,  glibly. 
"But  to-morrow  he  has  a  conclave,  and  the  next 
day  an  appointment  at  Sarum.  There  is  something 
I  want  to  ask  him — oh,  so  much,  the  dear,  good 
man!  I  must  see  him,  late  as  it  is.  I  can't  wait. 
Oh,  Richard,  I  have  a  surprise  in  store  for  you — 
perhaps — perhaps,  I  can  make  you  very  happy." 

"My  darling,  I  understand.  You  want  to  find 
what's  good  in  our  belief,  in  mother's  and  mine.  Oh, 
how  glad  this  will  make  her!  Just  to  think  that 
you  are  doing  this  for  me — how  you  must  love  me! 
He  put  back  the  sleeve  of  her  coat.  He  kissed  her 
hand,  and  wanted  to  kiss  her  arm.  Fortunata,  how- 
ever, fearing  that  he  might  discover  how  much  of 
her  carnal  body  was  displayed  for  calling  on  a  holy 
man  whose  business  was  with  the  converting  of  her 
soul,  pressed  her  husband's  hand  tenderly,  made  a 
hasty  retreat  to  her  carriage,  called  out  "To  the 
Bishop's!"  and  drew  to  the  door. 

The  musicians  are  tuning  up,  thought  she;  the 
flutes  are  trying  their  voices;   all  the  company  are 

247 


FORTUNATA 

assembled!  She  was  carried  past  Mrs.  Gillespie's 
house — a  train  of  carriages  was  in  waiting.  The 
Japanese  lanterns  weighted  every  tree — exotic, 
effulgent  fruit.  All  at  once,  to  her  own  surprise, 
she  let  down  the  window. 

"To  Colonel  Gillespie's!"  she  commanded. 

As  Lady  Trevers's  carriage  rolled  homeward  from 
the  ball,  the  day  was  risen.  At  the  blacksmith's 
forge,  across  the  meadow,  the  hammers  were  already 
clanging  and  the  fire  glowed,  while  on  the  fields  a 
mist  lay  sleeping.  All  that  night  Fortunata  had 
been  madly  gay  with  the  joy  of  wrong-doing — of 
letting  her  scruples  go  with  the  wind  and  hazard- 
ing her  future.  But  now  the  morrow  had  dawned, 
the  day  of  reckoning;  in  fancy  already  she  met  her 
husband's  bewildered  face;  his  questioning  assailed 
her.  Her  mother-in-law's  glum  countenance  rose 
before  her  with  dismal  upper  lip.  The  enormity  of 
what  she  had  done  came  over  her,  and  she  turned 
cold. 

I  must  have  been  mad !  she  thought. 

Indeed,  it  was  incredible  that  one  so  calculating, 
so  willing  to  resign  pleasure  for  self-advancement, 
should  have  been  led  astray  by  the  squeakings  of  a 
few  fiddles.  Accustomed  as  she  was  to  the  hazard- 
ous Roman  life,  where  she  could  never  guess  what 
the  next  morning  might  hold,  she  had  been  stifled, 
asphyxiated  by  the  monotony  of  these  days.  Yet 
strong  as  was  her  love  of  gayety,  it  had  not  prompt- 
ed her  to  run  this  risk.  No ;  it  was  her  vanity  this 
time,  as  so  often  before,  that  had  tripped  her  up. 
She  had  wanted  to  show  herself,  her  young,  resplend- 
ent self,  whose  charm  had  carried  off  the  handsomest, 

248 


FORTUNATA 

the  richest,  the  most  gossiped-of  man  in  Wiltshire, 
a  man  for  whom  all  the  mothers  of  the  coimty  had 
fought,  for  whom  all  the  daughters  disputed — to 
show  her  fine  clothes  and  her  curious,  foreign  beauty. 

"I  have  thrown  away  the  work  of  two  months. 
The  old  martinette  " — thus  had  she  christened  the 
Dowager — "will  never  forgive  me." 

The  Contessina,  looking  uncommonly  disconso- 
late, was  driven  on,  pale  as  a  wraith  in  the  light  of 
the  morning,  her  spirited  chin  sunk  in  the  folds  of 
her  cloak. 

The  brougham  ran  for  home,  and  above  the  trees 
the  towers  of  Stock-on-Tremp  reared  their  stem 
angles.  Fortunata  had  left  orders  for  Hortense  to 
open  to  her  the  little  postern  -  gate.  But  Lord 
Trevers,  himself,  undid  the  door.  Like  a  splendid, 
broad-shouldered  young  monk,  he  loomed  •  in  his 
dressing-gown  with  a  tasselled  rope  around  his  waist. 
He  did  not  speak,  but  led  his  wife  into  the  house, 
closed  the  door,  and  drew  the  bolts.  In  the  dark- 
ness of  the  hall  she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her. 

He  knows!   she  thought. 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"You  know;  why  do  you  ask  me?"  she  answered, 
not  without  spirit. 

He  took  her  by  the  wrist;  his  hand  closed  uncon- 
sciously about  hers  like  a  vise,  and  as  she  felt  his 
anger,  his  resentment,  perversely  enough  she  felt  that 
she  loved  him — almost.  He  turned  to  the  nearest 
room.  Here,  evidently,  he  had  been  waiting.  The 
curtains  were  drawn.  There  was  a  lamp  on  the  table, 
and  a  magazine.  This  was  a  bedroom,  long  unused 
and  grown  musty.     On  the  opposite  wall  hung  an 

249 


FORTUNATA 

allegorical  painting — Destruction  with  a  torch  fly« 
ing  over  a  dismal  field  of  carnage.  Lord  Trevers 
dropped  his  wife's  hand  and  stood  erect,  looking 
at  her.  She  stepped  to  the  mirror,  let  the  cloak 
fall  from  her  shoulders,  and  studied  herself  intently. 
Nevertheless,  she  had  a  wary  eye  for  her  husband. 

"You  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass  too  often,"  he 
said,  brutally. 

She  flared  up.  "I  like  my  face,  and  I  shall  look 
at  it  when  I  choose.  I  am  very  pretty,  or  at  least 
very  charming." 

"Oh,  Fortunata,  you  told  me  what  wasn't  true!" 
The  accusation  burst  from  him  like  a  sob. 

"Do  you  accuse  me  of  lying?"  she  demanded, 
haughtily. 

"You  did  not  go  to  the  Bishop's." 

"So  you  spy  on  me!" 

"It  was  five  o'clock,  and  you  had  not  yet  come 
home.  I  went  to  the  Palace.  The  gates  were  closed. 
The  lodge-keeper  told  me  you  had  not  passed." 

"You  were  misinformed,"  declared  Fortunata, 
who  could  never  make  a  full  confession  —  "the 
Bishop  was  from  home,  at  Colonel  Gillespie's,  if 
you  please;  so  I  went  there." 

"Oh,  Fortunata,  why  did  you — ^how  could  you — 
after  all  you  heard  mother  say?" 

"I  am  a  married  woman,  and  old  enough  to  do  as 
I  think  fit,"  she  cried,  flinging  up  her  chin,  arrogantly. 

"You  are  my  wife,  and  never  shall  do  what  I  or 
my  mother  disapprove." 

"For  twenty-three  years,  Richard,  I  have  man- 
aged to  exist  without  your  guidance  or  that  of  your 
admirable  mother,  and  I  shall  continue  to  do  so." 

250 


FORTUNATA 

"Not  while  you  bear  my  name." 

"Then  I  don't  want  your  name  if  I  can't  do  as 
I  Hke!"  she  cried,  proud  as  Lucifer. 

"My  mother  does  not  know  of  this,"  said  poor 
Dick,  pacing  up  and  down,  "and  she  must  not. 
She  will  read  of  it  in  the  papers,  of  course,  and  think 
it  a  mistake.  Some  one  will  speak  to  her  of  it,  and 
get  well  snubbed.  No  one  else  will  again  dare  to 
mention  the  subject  to  her.  We  must  keep  it  from 
her.  I  will  do  everything  short  of  telling  a  lie. 
Oh,  Fortunata,  what  a  position  you  have  put  me  in! 
I  must  deceive  my  own  mother!  If  she  ever  knew, 
it  would  break  her  heart." 

He  sat  down,  hunched  up,  the  image  of  dejection. 

She  saw  that  he  was  hurt,  that  his  case  was  dan- 
gerous. She  must  fight  back  to  where  she  had  stood 
with  him,  or  lose  his  love  and  her  influence  forever. 
Fortunata  had  early  learned  the  power  of  words  on 
her  husband.  A  flow  of  language  soothed  and  con- 
vinced him,  even  when  he  did  not  grasp  the  argu- 
ment. She  now  turned  upon  him  and  submerged 
him  with  her  talk.  Was  it  possible,  could  he  be- 
lieve, that  a  few  wax  candles,  a  few  fiddles,  were 
dearer  to  her  than  his  approval — how  he  misimder- 
stood  her!  It  pained  her  to  be  so  misjudged!  Yet 
it  was  for  him,  for  him  only,  that  she  had  braved 
criticism,  appeared  all  alone  among  aliens  and  for- 
eigners, hazarding  his  love  for  her  and  that  of  his 
dear  mother. 

Yes,  she  repeated,  it  was  for  him.  Well  might 
he  look  startled  and  perhaps  a  little  ashamed.  Did 
he  ask  why?  She  would  tell  him.  Lady  Hickle- 
bury,   she  knew,   represented  a  powerfiil  faction; 

251 


FORTUNATA 

Mrs.  Gillespie  was  her  proiegie;  many  of  the  best 
people  frequented  the  Colonel's  house;  the  Bishop 
was  his  friend.  Suppose,  then,  that  all  Stock-on- 
Tremp  refused  the  invitation,  what  a  slight  was  im- 
plied! What  open  criticism  of  those  who  accepted! 
This  was  a  bad  beginning  for  Lord  and  Lady  Trevers. 
They  were  thereby  merely  laying  up  unpopularity 
for  themselves. 

"I  have  often  told  mother,"  said  Dick,  looking 
at  Fortunata  with  more  familiar  eyes,  "that  her 
prejudices  were — " 

"I  will  not  hear  a  word  of  criticism  of  your 
mother,  Richard!"  interrupted  Fortunata,  "I  said 
to  myself,"  she  continued,  "I  shall  not  get  per- 
mission to  go,  but  go  I  must,  for  my  Dick's  sake. 
I  worship  truth;  but  in  his  cause  no  scruples  shall 
hinder  me.  I  accounted  for  yoiir  non-appearance; 
I  told  Mrs.  Gillespie  you  were  taken  suddenly  ill." 

"What  disease  did  I  have?"  asked  Richard,  with 
awe. 

"Quinsy." 

"What  is  that?"  he  questioned,  with  growing  ad- 
miration. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  admitted.  "No,  Richard, 
my  judgment  may  have  been  at  fault;  but  no  selfish 
love  of  pleasure  prompted  me.  My  thought  was  of 
you,  and  you  only.  The  end  justified  the  means." 
She  came  across  to  him  and,  sitting  down  at  his  feet, 
crossed  her  hands  and  rested  them  on  his  knees. 
The  lamp  was  burning  out,  and  in  the  uncertain 
light  her  face  had  an  illusive  charm — the  singular 
pallor  that  had  always  enchanted  him. 

"I  imderstand  your  motives,"  Lord  Trevers  fal- 
252 


FORTUNATA 

tered,  "and,  of  course,  you  did  not  tell  me  a  direct 
falsehood — " 

"Richard,"  she  said,  "if  I  thought  it  would  help 
you — if  I  thought  it  was  for  your  good — I  would 
tell  a  thousand  lies — don't  you  know  it,  Richard?" 

"I  don't  know  anything!"  he  groaned,  feeling  his 
anger  escaping  him.  "I  love  you  —  that  is  all  I 
know." 

"There  is  no  sacrifice  I  would  not  make  for  you. 
My  husband,  look  at  me  and  you  will  believe  me." 
A  tender,  mysterious  smile  illuminated  her  face. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  tears  actually  came  into  his 
eyes.  He  put  his  arms  about  her,  kissed  her.  '  *  For- 
give me!"  he  said,  humbled.  "What  you  do  is  for 
the  best,  always." 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

THE  obstinate  barometer,  despite  Plutonian  black- 
ness, pointed  still  to  "Fair."  In  the  shadow 
of  the  hall  the  wet  ulsters  drooped  like  wraiths. 
The  girls,  bored  with  putting  off  and  on  their  ga- 
loshes, brooded  over  the  hearth,  their  wet  feet  in 
the  grate. 

"Dearest  Aunt  Colibri,"  wrote  Fortunata,  "every- 
thing is  so  damp  and  sticky,  I  am  bored  to  death. 
Is  no  one  of  my  family  dead  or  dying  ?  Is  it  not  very 
urgent  that  I  should  come  home?" 

Five  days  later,  "Wake  up,  little  one!"  shouted 
Dick,  plunging  his  head  into  Fortunata's  room  at 
the  eerie  hour  of  seven  in  the  morning. 

"Is  that  you.  Sunbeam?" 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  stables." 

"So  I  might  have  suspected." 

"There  is  a  telegram  for  you." 

"Oh!"  cried  Fortunata,  both  hands  on  her  heart, 
"I  feel  a  sense  of  foreboding,  something  tells  me — " 

"Well,  read  and  find  out." 

"No,  read  it  yourself,  dear;  I  haven't  the  courage." 

Dick  read: 

"Tonsillitis  set  in  and  pleurisy  feared.  Come  immedi- 
ately. Prudenzia  Colibri." 

"There,  didn't  I  tell  you  so!"  she  cried. 
254 


FORTUNATA 

"Have  you  suffered  much,  dear  Aunt?"  asked 
Fortunata,  who,  with  her  husband,  had  just  reached 
Rome  and  come  direct  to  inquire  after  the  Princess. 

"I  am  better  now,"  said  the  Princess,  with  a 
sepulchral  cough.  "Where  are  you  staying,  Lord 
Trevers?" 

"We  think  of  the  Grand  Hotel!" 

"A  horrid  hole!  Your  apartment,  I  suppose, 
isn't  ready  ?  Come  to  me  till  then,  and  the  business 
details  we  can  discuss  later." 

But  the  Contessina  felt  a  distaste  for  the  disrep- 
utable home  of  her  childhood. 

"Our  Italian  cooking  doesn't  agree  with  Richard, 
Zia,"  she  said.  She  was  beginning  to  find  Richard 
useful — and  Lord  and  Lady  Trevers  went  elsewhere. 

Fortunata  felt  some  apprehension  at  thought  of 
her  future  home  in  the  Via  Vente  Settembre,  yet  in 
the  physical  sense,  at  least,  it  was  the  most  charm- 
ing of  homes — the  panelled  walls,  the  broad  window- 
sills,  the  hospitable  chairs  and  deep  divans  seemed 
to  tell  of  the  intimate  life  of  a  man  and  woman. 
She  regretted  that  she  could  not  love  Dick  more. 
His  lack  of  humor — of  humor  as  she  understood  it 
— was  a  trial  to  her.  She  herself  was  alive  always 
to  the  ridiculous.  She  would  glance  at  him  for  sym- 
pathy, and  there  he  sat  looking  over  the  top  of  his 
collar,  as  glum  as  an  ogre.  She  once  asked  him, 
"Do  you  ever  laugh?" 

He  answered,  "Yes,  I  laugh  often;  I  am  very  fond 
of  jokes." 

His  wife,  Lord  Trevers  intended,  should  wait  on 
him  by  inches,  but  Fortunata  was  not  that  kind  of 
a  Griselda.     She,  too,  had  done  a  little  tyrannizing 

255 


FORTUNATA 

— to  love  her  meant  to  suffer  and  to  work  for  her. 
She  broke  him  in,  till  he  fetched  and  carried  for 
her  like  a  dog.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  this  six-foot 
mass  of  conceit  grown  so  humble.  He  told  her, 
"It  makes  me  so  happy  to  wait  on  you — "  And 
she  answered,  "Your  life,  then,  will  be  one  stretch 
of  sunshine,  dearest." 

Before  marriage,  Richard  had  settled  in  his  mind 
the  sort  of  clothes  his  wife  should  wear — tweed 
frocks,  low-heeled  boots,  a  modest  coiffure — a  severe 
style,  unlike  Fortunata's  frivolous  chic.  He  showed 
an  obstinate  dislike  to  certain  colors  and  a  pred- 
ilection for  blue  of  a  washed-out  shade,  and  hate- 
ful to  Fortunata.  She  managed  him  adroitly  with 
her  talk  and  cheerfulness,  as  one  guides  a  stubborn 
horse  who  balks  a  fence.  He  found  fault  with  her 
extravagance,  and  rightly.  She  sucked  up  money 
as  a  leech  does  blood. 

Richard  marvelled  at  his  wife's  vanity,  yet  she 
might  have  pointed  out  the  same  faults  in  him. 
The  large  complacence,  however,  with  which  Lord 
Trevers  regarded  himself  was  beyond  vanity.  His 
was  the  pride  of  the  male,  the  pride  that  makes  the 
peacock  strut  and  outshine  its  mate.  He  passed 
hours  at  his  tailor's,  and  was  as  earnest  over  his 
toilettes  as  any  fading  belle  of  sixty.  In  his  dress- 
ing-room stood  a  forest  of  boot-trees.  He  had  ties 
and  waistcoats  multicolored.  His  coats  hung  from 
forms  on  the  walls  so  that  in  the  dusk  it  was  un- 
canny to  see  them.  At  every  chance  he  showed 
Fortunata  his  clothes;  discussed  them,  wondered  if 
they  became  him,  with  a  simplicity  that  was  dis- 
arming. 

256 


FORTUNATA 

She  had  once  asked  why  he  shaved  his  mustache. 
"Let  it  grow;  it  gives  a  man  such  a  brave  look." 
He  answered,  "My  mouth  is  rather  nice,  and  a 
mustache  would  hide  it." 

His  lips,  indeed,  were  firm  and  well  shaped;  his 
white  teeth  like  genial  tombstones;  his  chin  square. 
He  knew  his  points,  it  seemed. 

After  a  week  their  apartment  was  ready.  Their 
home  stood  open  for  them,  and  Fortunata  found 
that  in  her  heart,  although  she  had  never  known 
it,  she  had  been  longing  all  her  life  long  for  some 
walls  to  call  her  own. 

She  was  an  excellent  housekeeper,  neat  and  me- 
thodical, talented  in  her  management  of  servants. 
Only  in  this,  as  in  everything  else,  her  shiftlessness 
in  money  matters  was  apparent.  Lord  Trevers, 
though  far  from  mean,  had  a  correct  estimate  of 
money.     He  took  her  to  task. 

' '  Italians  throw  money  away.  It  is  a  Continental 
fault,"  he  told  her,  seriously.  "It's  in  your  blood; 
your  father  was  a  spendthrift." 

To  which  Fortunata  answered,  "All  my  life  long, 
Richard,  I  have  done  what  I  chose  and  had  what 
I  wanted,  and  quarrelled  with  no  one." 

The  season  was  in  full  swing,  the  air  full  of  a 
feverish  gayety.  Fortunata  piloted  her  husband 
through  dinners,  balls,  festas.  She  spurred  him  on 
to  his  duties  as  a  diplomat.  It  was  remarked  by 
the  world  that  Trevers  was  unstiffening,  was  thaw- 
ing out,  was  becoming  civilized  almost.  Fortunata 
worked  strenuously  to  keep  him  afloat.  Her  nature 
craved  occupation.  His  career  gave  her  life  a 
meaning — his  success  was  her  aim.  He  made  a 
17  257 


FORTUNATA 

break,  and  she  filled  up  the  breach.  She  heard  him 
boring  some  one,  and  she  took  him  off.  She  was 
indefatigable,  and  steadily  she  pushed  him  ahead. 
Already  for  herself  she  perceived  an  enviable  middle 
age — her  husband  ambassador  and  under  her  thumb. 
Thus  Lady  Trevers  would  have  all  England  in  her 
hands.  Patiently,  courageously,  intelligently,  she 
worked  to  make  for  herself  a  place  in  the  world. 
There  was  no  youth  too  green  but  she  could  look 
into  his  eyes  and  smile;  no  professor  too  pedantic 
but  with  flashing  looks  she  could  discuss  with  him 
fossils  and  Roman  ruins;  no  old  lady  too  deaf  but 
she  bent,  entranced,  over  the  ear-trumpet. 

Curiously  enough,  as  Fortunata  worked  for  Dick 
and  for  herself,  as  she  strove  to  fire  him  with  her 
own  ability  and  ambition,  as  she  was  brought  to 
observe  his  slow-working,  commonplace  brain,  she 
felt  her  heart  change  toward  him,  and  feeling  his 
dependence,  grew  fond  of  him.  In  some  ways  he 
was  her  superior;  she  knew  it,  and  from  this  fact 
she  drew  a  certain  pleasure.  If  she  had  the  better 
brain,  he  had  the  better  heart.  He  was  earnest 
where  she  was  light;  truthful  where  she  was  false; 
faithful  where  she  was  capricious  and  unstable.  She 
was  proud  of  his  beauty,  of  his  physical  strength, 
she  liked  his  fondness  for  clothes,  his  well-groomed, 
cleanly,  masculine  aspect.  They  were  happy  to- 
gether, laughing  across  their  little  dinner-table,  the 
candles  and  a  bowl  of  flowers  keeping  their  whis- 
pering heads  apart.  To  him  everything  she  said 
was  witty,  everything  she  did  was  right;  in  his 
eyes  she  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  and  the 
nearest  to  perfection  in  the  world.     Certain  minute 

258 


FORTUNATA 

defects  in  her,  such  as  a  perverted  taste  for  clothes 
of  a  racy  order,  her  deHght  in  spending  money,  were 
in  his  mind  merely  amiable  caprices  that  sufficed  to 
make  her  adorably  human.  If  at  certain  moments 
the  old  thought  persisted  in  cropping  up  that  she 
had  deceived  him,  stolen  off  against  his  will  to  the 
ball  of  a  notorious  woman,  he  gave  his  obsession 
vent,  questioned  her  over  again,  always  hoping  for 
an  answer  that  might  lay  the  ghost  of  his  unrest. 
She  never  lost  patience,  but  listened  with  attention, 
lied  to  him  with  the  politeness  that  seemed  inbred. 
In  time  he  asked  less  and  less  often,  and  she  began 
to  hope  that  he  was  free  of  his  monomania. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

ONE  day  they  had  a  quarrel — a  real  quarrel.  It 
was  in  the  evening.  The  Austrian  ambassador 
was  holding  an  official  reception.  The  diplomats 
were  to  attend  in  full  regalia.  Dick  came  to  Fortu- 
nata's  room  to  show  himself  off,  as  vainglorious  as 
a  debutante  before  her  first  ball.  He  wore  his  splen- 
did uniform,  his  great  chest  tattooed  with  orders  and 
ribbons  and  medals.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  hilt 
of  his  sword  and  looked  toward  his  wife,  with 
conscious  pride.  He  was  not  a  little  pleased  with 
himself.  Fortunata,  standing  before  the  glass,  en- 
circling her  throat  with  a  string  of  pearls,  cried, 
"You're  beautiful,  Dick;  word  of  honor!" 

"This  uniform  doesn't  look  half  bad  on  me,"  he 
agreed.  "Are  you  entirely  dressed?"  he  suddenly 
asked,  arrested  by  his  wife's  costume. 

"Yes." 

"Dressed  completely?"  he  repeated. 

"This,"  said  Fortunata,  pointing  toward  her 
sheath  skirt,  "is  the  Directoire  fashion." 

"Beastly  fashion,  I  call  it." 

"I  hope  the  ballroom  is  in  the  basement,"  For- 
tunata admitted,  turning  round  and  shimmering  in 
her  serpentine  splendor.  "I  don't  know  how  I  shall 
step  up  the  stairs." 

"And  is  that  all  your  own  hair?"  asked  Richard, 
260 


FORTUNATA 

more   and   more   mystified   by  his   wife's   aspect. 
"That  great  bunch  on  the  back  of  your  head?" 

"Of  course  not.     What  a  silly  question!" 

' '  I  have  always  said  that  my  wife  should  not  wear 
false  hair.  It's  dirty;  it's  unwholesome — whose 
head  has  that  come  off  of — you  don't  know.  I  have 
heard  my  mother  say  it  heats  the  scalp."" 

"Your  mother  would  look  better  in  a  lock  or 
two,"  Fortunata  exclaimed,  now  thoroughly  an- 
noyed. "Better  than  in  those  snuffy  bathing  caps 
she  wears.  Talk  about  the  unreasonableness  of 
women;  men  are  annoying.  *I  want  my  wife,' 
they  say,  'to  have  a  smartly  dressed  head,  but  she 
sha'n't  wear  a  switch,  or  a  rat,  or  a  strand  of  false 
hair.  My  wife  must  be  the  smartest  woman  in  the 
room.  Her  gown  has  to  be  stunning,  and  it  shall 
cost  her  five  hundred  lire  only.'" 

' '  I  like  simple  things, ' '  Richard  declared ;  "  a  pretty 
muslin  frock  looks  better  to  me  than  all  that  giddy 
twinkling  stuff." 

"A  pretty  fiddlestick!"  cried  Fortunata,  losing  all 
patience.  "My  poor  husband,  you  deceive  your- 
self. You  have  a  quantity  of  ideas  that  you  accept 
from  your  mother  all  ready-made,  and  try  to  pass 
them  off  as  your  own." 

"If  I  must  get  my  ideas  ready-made,  I  could 
choose  them  from  no  one  better." 

"You'll  take  them  from  me  after  a  while," 
said  Fortunata  boastfully.  "You'll  believe  me  in 
time." 

"I  always  Hsten  to  what  you  say,"  he  answered. 
"I  do  believe  in  you,  although  I  do  know  of  once 
when  you  deceived  me." 

261 


FORTUNATA 

"Are  you  referring  to  that  Gillespie  world-with- 
out-end?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  so  angry  with  you,"  Fortunata  declared, 
"that  I  am  tempted  to  stay  at  home,  and  let  you 
go  to  the  Embassy  alone  and  dish  yourself." 

"You  cannot  come  with  me  in  that  dress.  It  is 
not  decent." 

She  saw  that  he  was  in  earnest.  By  degrees  she 
must  educate  him  to  the  style.  She  never  struggled 
against  the  inevitable,  so  she  came  to  him  and  said, 
"Richard,  you  know  I  only  dress  to  please  you.  I 
will  change  my  gown."  And  she  smiled  at  him 
with  the  charm  of  expression  that  was  hers.  By 
this  move  she  bewitched  him  more  than  ever,  had 
it  been  possible. 

For  the  first  time  Fortunata  had  been  made  to  do 
something  against  her  will,  and  she  was  conscious 
of  an  acute  pleasure.  She  had  met  her  master. 
She  revelled  in  the  consciousness  of  a  force  superior 
to  her  own. 

Eugenio  came  to  call  sometimes,  still  talking  of 
La  Valli^re.  Sometimes  Antonia  came;  'sometimes 
Luigi.  Lord  Trevers  glumly  received  the  latter. 
"He's  a  braggart  and  a  cad,"  Richard  would  say, 
and  Don  Luigi  learned  that  for  one  woman,  at  least, 
he  was  not  irresistible.  Poor  Francesca,  who  was 
of  so  little  account  at  home,  found  a  heaven  in  Via 
Vente  Settembre.  To  this  neglected  child  Fortu- 
nata had  generally  been  kind.  Now  she  fed  her, 
made  her  presents,  listened  to  her  talk.  Lord 
Trevers  was  Francesca's  friend,  and  in  this  atmos- 
phere of  shelter,  of  sympathy,  the  child  bloomed, 

262 


FORTUNATA 

told  the  secrets,  the  events  of  her  desolate  life,  and 
felt  that  she  was  at  last  one  anK)ng  human  beings. 
As  for  Antonia,  she  made  Lady  Trevers's  sitting- 
room  her  confessional.  Dick  had  a  distrust  of  her, 
and  at  the  sound  of  her  summons,  a  distracted  peal- 
ing of  the  loggia  bell,  he  left  the  house,  bowing  to 
her  sombrely  as  they  passed  on  the  stairs.  An- 
tonia's  visits  were  long  and  lamentable — it  seemed 
that  Luigi  was  falling  away  from  her.  "Ah!"  she 
would  say,  "it  is  inevitable.  E  il  destino.  There 
is  always  one  who  loves  the  most.  One  kisses,  and 
the  other  takes  the  kiss!"  And  in  turbulent  sorrow 
she  would  take  herself  off,  flightily  forgetting  her 
gloves  or  her  purse,  or  a  treasured  note  of  Luigi's 
which  she  had  brought  for  Fortunata  to  peruse. 

"Does  the  Colibri  ever  speak  of  your  letters?" 
Fortunata  once  asked  her. 

Antonia  held  out  her  arms,  as  though  about  to 
be  crucified.  "My  poor  letters!"  she  cried.  "I 
shall  never  see  them  again!" 

"I  am  not  so  sure,"  said  Fortunata.  "I  am  very 
uneasy.  As  for  me,  the  Madonna  be  thanked,  I 
am  through  with  the  Colibri  forever!  Yesterday  I 
paid  her  the  last  of  the  money  I  owed  her." 

It  was  true.  By  pilfering  from  the  sum  given 
her  for  clothes  and  the  household  expenses,  Fortu- 
nata had  discharged  her  debt  of  ten  thousand  eight 
hundred  lire  to  the  Princess,  together  with  its  sub- 
sequent interest.  Very  naturally,  she  had  never 
told  Richard  the  discreditable  story.  She  could 
picture  his  amazement,  his  horror. 

"You  know,  Antonia,  she  made  me  sign  an  agree- 
ment.    She   wouldn't   give   me    back    the    paper, 

263 


FORTUNATA 

though.  She  swore  that  she'd  torn  it  up.  Some- 
how, I  don't  believe  her,  and  I  can't  help  feeling 
anxious.  I  wish  I'd  made  her  give  me  a  receipt. 
I'll  make  her  write  me  an  acknowledgment  the  next 
time  I  see  her." 

It  would,  indeed,  have  been  a  wise  precaution, 
but  Fortunata,  distracted  by  thousands  of  interests, 
forgot  the  unhappy  business. 

The  sun  looked  in  all  day  on  Richard  and  Fortu- 
nata in  their  home.  Canaries  sang  in  the  windows, 
flowers  bloomed  on  every  table.  They  had  plenty 
of  money,  many  friends;  they  were  flattered,  spoiled, 
made  much  of.  So  busy  were  they  amusing  them- 
selves that  they  had  no  time  to  think.  The  winter 
passed  like  an  enchanted  dream.  Spring  came,  with 
the  promise  of  travel,  of  strange  countries,  of  new 
faces. 

"Where  shall  we  go,  Fortunata?"  Richard  asked, 
one  evening,  as  they  walked  home  through  the  sul- 
try streets  from  the  Circolodi  Tennis.  He  strode 
on  beside  her  in  his  white  flannels,  holding  the 
rackets  in  his  tanned  hands.  "To  England — to 
Stock-on-Tremp  ?" 

In  fancy,  a  stem  old  face  rose  up  before  Fortunata, 
bristling  with  teeth. 

"No,"  she  said;  "some  place  where  you  and  I 
can  be  alone." 

"I  think  so,  too,"  he  agreed,  with  a  heartiness 
that  refreshed  her. 

They  had  come  into  the  house,  exquisitely  thirsty, 
and  in  the  sitting-room  were  taking  lemonade 
through  straws.  The  blinds  were  down  to  keep 
out  the  violence  of  the  heat;  the  canaries  twittered 

?64 


FORTUNATA 

one  bar  over  and  over  again,  as  though  striving  to 
learn  a  refrain.  Richard  had  taken  up  a  map  and 
was  studying  it.  "What  do  you  say  to  Perugia, 
Fortunata?  It's  a  dull  hole,  but  I  should  like  it,'* 
he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"So  should  I,"  she  answered;  and  she  was  sur- 
prised at  her  reply.  Perugia,  a  sun-baked  town, 
lost  among  the  hills :  that  meant  that  she  would  not 
see  a  man  she  knew ;  that  Dick  would  walk  her  over 
the  hills,  their  two  shadows  side  by  side,  unenliv- 
ened by  a  third.  Yet  the  prospect  did  not  frighten 
her;  she  told  herself  that  it  was  for  a  few  months 
only,  and  would  prove  a  rest-cure.  To  Rome  she 
would  return,  refreshed,  rejuvenated,  her  wits 
sharpened,  ready  to  spur  on  Richard  to  a  higher 
post.  Italian  in  all  her  viewpoints,  she  had  meant 
after  her  marriage  to  be  the  most  talked-of  woman 
in  Rome.  She  was  not  going  very  fast  about  her 
business.  Somehow,  she  found  it  harder  to  flirt. 
She  began  almost  to  be  afraid  lest  she  might  be  de- 
generating into  a  dull  matron  occupied  with  do- 
mesticity, with  housekeeping.  At  times  she  caught 
herself  quoting  Dick — appalling  discovery !  She  had 
always  scorned  these  dutiful  and  doting  wives. 

The  house  which  they  took  was  among  the  hills, 
not  far  from  Perugia,  close  to  a  stream.  Goats 
sprang  upon  the  rocks,  and  the  brown  shepherds 
came  after,  playing  the  flute  and  the  pipes — a 
melancholy  trill,  a  trifle  flat,  reiterated  until  it 
gained  the  heart  and  filled  the  listener  with  the 
mystic,  throbbing  wonder  of  the  South.  The  sun 
seemed  greedy,  trying  to  dry  up  all  the  rocks;  the 
lizards,  stealthy  of  purpose,  glistening  with  blue  and 

265 


FORTUNATA 

green,  shot  through  the  crevices  Hke  evil  genii. 
The  edera  pungente  and  other  rampart  plants  spread 
out  their  dusty,  wicked  leaves,  and  at  every  con- 
tadino's  window  flourished  the  brutal  red  geranium. 
At  night  nature  relaxed,  weary  of  engendering, 
weary  of  the  ardor  of  the  sun.  The  moon  rose  in 
the  sky,  seeming  frail  and  virginal  after  the  furies 
of  the  day.  Down  in  the  well  of  the  hills  lay 
Perugia — a  light  here,  a  light  there,  studded  with 
sparks,  it  shone  like  a  lower  hieaven. 

Certainly,  Richard  was  not  entertaining.  He  was 
anything  but  witty.  His  enemies  might  have  called 
him  dull;  still,  it  is  a  doubtful  joy  to  be  always  in 
the  company  of  genius;  and  Lord  Trevers  possessed 
one  quality,  rare  in  a  person  of  will — he  was  pleas- 
ant to  live  with.  Then,  again,  he  was  as  handsome 
as  a  god;  and  Fortunata,  like  many  women,  had  an 
exaggerated  worship  of  the  beautiful. 

She  rode  like  a  fury  to  keep  up  with  him.  The 
horses  ran  abreast  along  the  Umbrian  Plains,  their 
hoofs  waking  sparks  on  the  dry  Perugian  roads. 
The  contadini  passed,  flowers  behind  their  ears. 
"  Buon  Viaggio !     Buona  Cavalcata!"  shouted  they. 

For  the  time  she  had  given  up  all  her  false  hair; 
she  took  to  low  heels. 

"You  look  ripping,  Fortunata!"  cried  her  hus- 
band. "Those  are  the  clothes  you  ought  to  wear 
always.  You're  getting  a  jolly  color  like  my 
sisters." 

Could  it  be,  then,  that  her  carefully  acquired 
charm  was  lost — the  exotic  charm  of  the  lotus? 
Had  she  degenerated  into  the  blousy  cabbage-rose, 
and  rather  a  brown  rose,  alas!     With  a  stab  at  the 

266 


FORTUNATA 

heart,  she  marked  a  tracery  of  freckles — fine  but 
undeniable — across  the  bridge  of  her  nose.  She  was 
appalled;  her  conscience  was  shocked  as  at  a  de- 
terioration of  character. 

In  the  evenings  the  two  sat,  side  by  side,  at  the 
gate  of  the  house  looking  across  the  valley,  happy 
with  exercise,  with  fresh  air.  In  the  growing  con- 
fidence, the  tenderness  that  dusk  inspires,  they 
talked  of  their  future  and  of  the  happiness  they 
meant  to  find  in  life.  The  air  was  still.  Slender, 
dishevelled,  the  willows  soared  up  like  enchanted 
dryads,  bewitched  while  dancing.  The  muleteers 
drove  home  cracking  their  whips — "Aye,  aye, 
avanti!"  Far  off,  down  in  the  pit  of  the  hills,  rang 
the  bells  of  Perugia — far  off,  a  breath  of  sound  so 
faint,  so  elusive,  that  one  seemed  to  divine  rather 
than  to  hear  it. 

It  was  a  night  in  August,  the  collazione  was  over. 
Richard  lounged  out  to  the  gate,  a  stocky  pipe  held 
between  his  white  teeth;  he  sat  down  by  Fortunata's 
side.  Chin  in  hands,  she  was  looking  out  across 
the  chasms  like  a  young  sphinx.  For  the  last  week 
she  had  not  been  well.  She  had  been  aware  of  a 
ringing  in  her  ears,  a  sense  of  giddiness  and  pains 
across  the  back  of  her  head. 

"Dick,  the  bells  aren't  ringing  to-night,"  she  said; 
"why  is  that?" 

"Perhaps  it  isn't  a  festa."  Suddenly  he  lifted 
his  hand.  "Listen!  there  they  go."  She  heard 
nothing.  She  listened  again.  "Why,  no — "  she 
hesitated.     He  turned  to  her  in  triumph. 

"Your  ears  aren't  as  sharp  as  mine.  You  don't 
267 


FORTUNATA 

suppose,  Fortunata,  you  will  have  any  trouble  like 
your  mother's,  eh?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  dark,  long-lashed 
eyes,  to  which  one  never  seemed  to  grow  accus- 
tomed. Incredulity  was  the  dominant  note  of  her 
expression. 

She  had  always  had  faith  in  her  Providence.  She 
was  too  unusual,  she  thought,  not  to  be  protected. 
Also,  she  was  piqued  that  Richard  could  think  her 
capable  of  so  unattractive  an  ailment  as  deafness. 
It  could  not  be — yet  all  summer  she  never  heard 
the  bells  again.  She  was  preoccupied,  obsessed, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  nights  was  lost  to  her.  She 
kept  a  watch  on  herself.  Did  she  miss  what  others 
heard  ?  It  seemed  to  her — or  was  it  an  idea  ? — that 
the  finer  noises,  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  the  fall  of 
the  rain,  all  the  subtleties  of  sound  escaped  her. 
Deep  down  in  her  heart  something  stirred — a  fore- 
boding, and  a  chill  of  more  than  Death  came  over 
her.  Not  even  to  herself  did  she  admit  her  fear; 
but  where  she  went  there  it  was — fear  enveloped  her 
like  a  mist.  It  blotted  out  the  glory  of  the  Perugian 
summer. 

To  herself  Fortunata  said,  "God  is  good,  every  one 
says  so";  and  she  prayed  him  to  keep  her  and  the 
few  she  loved  from  death  and  all  that  is  evil. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THEY  were  at  home  again.  The  butler,  beam- 
ing welcome,  threw  open  the  door.  Fortunata 
stood  on  the  threshold,  her  eyes  suddenly  filled  with 
tears. 

"Oh,  Dick!"  she  said,  "how  I  have  grown  to  love 
that  lozenge  wall-paper  your  mother  chose.  And 
the  table-cloth,  I  adore  it !"  She  flung  her  arms  out. 
"All  sun,"  she  cried,  "like  the  rooms  that  mother 
dreams  of,  with  a  southern  exposure  on  every  side." 

Debt,  like  the  sword  of  Damocles,  had  hung  over 
her  head  all  her  girlhood.  The  walls  of  the  Palazzo 
Colibri  had  seemed  to  shelter  her  under  protest. 
Now  she  need  no  longer  be  ashamed  or  afraid. 
Here  in  the  face  of  all  men  was  her  home;  it  be- 
longed to  her;  it  was  hers  to  alter,  to  take  care 
of;  here  she  might  gather  together  the  things  that 
were  dear  to  her,  and  here  she  meant  to  be  happy. 

Society  still  allured  her.  She  plunged  into  balls 
and  dinners,  albeit  with  something  less  than  the  old 
fervor.  It  was  harder  for  her  to  grasp  the  jerky, 
disconnected  sentences.  Sometimes  others  laughed 
when  she  had  not  caught  the  joke,  and  she  had  such 
a  horror  of  seeming  dull! 

"I  am  less  of  a  liar,"  she  thought,  "than  I  used 
to  be."  Nevertheless,  the  lies  of  the  past  kept 
tripping  her  up. 

269 


FORTUNATA 

One  evening  she  and  Richard  were  riding  in  the 
Borghese  Gardens.  She  was  almost  happy,  and  felt 
as  though  she  were  closer,  dearer  to  him.  Suddenly 
a  woman  appeared,  on  horseback,  galloping  toward 
them.  By  the  excessive  dwindling  of  the  waist, 
Fortunata  recognized  Pearl.  Miss  Case  came  ca- 
vorting up,  laughing,  the  scarf  of  her  hat  fluttering 
out  behind  her.  She  shouldered  her  whip  in  a  mili- 
tary salute.     Her  manner  was  a  jeer. 

"Good-morning,  Lord  Trevers!"  she  said,  ignor- 
ing Fortunata. 

Lord  Trevers  bowed  with  a  petrified  face.     He' 
disliked  Miss  Case.     "You  have  met  my  wife,   I 
think." 

"Oh,  Dick,  how  can  you!"  reproved  Fortunata. 
"You've  spoiled  everything;  we  were  cutting  each 
other." 

Miss  Case  gave  a  nasty  smile.  "I  have  known 
your  wife  longer  than  you  yourself  have,  Lord 
Trevers.  What  funny  times  we've  had  together!" 
She  started  in  to  tell  of  their  mutual  adventures. 
She  did  it  artfully,  placing  Fortunata  in  the  worst 
light,  although  never  once  uttering  a  hard  word. 
She  brought  out  the  Contessina's  flirtations,  her 
scandalous  gayety,  even  while  she  seemed  to  praise. 
The  wind  was  high;  Fortunata  could  not  hear; 
nevertheless,  she  scented  danger.  She  rode  up  to 
Lord  Trevers  and  put  her  hand  in  his,  although 
even  when  alone  with  Richard  she  rarely  offered 
him  a  caress.  Now  she  gave  him  a  glance,  warm 
and  shy,  that  spoke  of  intimacy  and  happiness. 

Miss  Case  wheeled,  made  her  horse  prance  and 
cavort,  then  plunged  away  at  a  gallop,  showing  off 

270 


FORTUNATA 

her  figure,  so  shapely  as  to  be  almost  indecent. 
Lord  Trevers  looked  after  her  with  elaborate  in- 
difference. 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?" 

"She's  jealous." 

"Yes,  of  course;  but  why?" 

"We  came  out  the  same  year  and  always  inter- 
fered. She  was  in  love  with  a  man  to  whom  I  was 
— well,  yes,  engaged — Guasconte,  you  know." 

"Ah,  then,  that's  true?" 

"Yes;  and  afterward  she  wanted  to  marry 
Eugenio,  but  I  wouldn't  let  her." 

"What,  she  cared  for  him?" 

"She  got  over  it.  She  was  crazy  about  you 
next." 

"She  is  jealous,  then,  I  dare  say." 

Did  he  forget  the  innuendoes,  the  hints  of  sly 
meetings  and  thievish  kisses — de  Brillac  and  all  the 
others?  Fortunata  never  knew.  Once,  some  time 
after,  he  said,  "It's  queer  to  think  how  many  men 
you  nearly  married." 

The  phrase  was  unlike  him — it  savored  of  Miss 
Case's  persiflage. 

Again  one  night,  Lord  and  Lady  Trevers  were 
leaving  the  Costanzi  Theatre.  In  the  street  the 
crowd  was  calling  for  their  carriages.  Catching 
sight  of  his,  Richard  hurried  Fortunata  toward  it, 
but  suddenly  came  up  against  an  old  gentleman 
sidling  crab-wise  along  the  curb.  Fortunata' s  heart 
bumped.  It  was  Prince  Raoul  de  la  Tour  Bichelle! 
He  turned  grayer,  drew  off  his  hat,  and  bowed.  His 
manner  touched  her,  so  humble  was  it  and  forlorn. 
Dick  helped  her  into  the  coupe,  then  turned  to  gaze 

271 


FORTUNATA 

after  the  Frenchman  with  the  cold  curiosity  of  youth. 
Stepping  into  the  carriage,  he  swung  to  the  door. 

"By  Jove!  That  old  ape  will  outlive  us  all! 
Tell  me  one  thing!"  His  face  clouded  over  with  the 
look  she  had  grown  to  dread.  "How  in  God's  name 
could  you  think  of  marrying  him?" 

It  was  neither  just  nor  logical  to  bring  up  her 
former  mistakes.  Before  their  marriage  he  had 
known  of  them — he  should,  then,  either  have  for- 
gotten Fortunata  or  forgotten  certain  episodes  in 
her  life.  But  the  Gillespie  incident  seemed  to  have 
brought  her  past  more  clearly  and  vitally  before 
him.  Once  a  man  of  Richard's  nature  is  possessed 
with  an  idea,  it  holds  him  till  death.  He  was  too 
proud  to  question ;  he  rarely  asked  for  explanations, 
yet  too  often  Fortunata  caught  him  looking  at  her, 
his  brows  drawn  in  mute  appeal,  his  eye  searching 
her,  as  though  trying  to  read  her  soul ;  for  he  loved 
her,  still  loved  her  entirely,  and  she  had  failed  him. 
For  the  first  time  Fortunata  perceived  the  useless- 
ness  of  words.  To  say,  I  am  sorry,  I'll  begin  over 
again — how  unprofitable!  To  explain,  to  confess — 
as  well  let  the  wind  blow.  After  all,  she  and  her 
husband  were  strangers.  They  had  been  shone  on 
by  different  suns;  they  spoke  different  languages; 
they  must  ask  less  one  of  the  other.  Nevertheless, 
they  got  on  genially,  like  people  who  long  ago  have 
given  up  trying  to  make  a  good  impression  on  each 
other. 

One  night  at  dinner  she  was  conscious  of  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her  as  though  to  read  her  thoughts.  When 
the  butler  had  brought  the  coffee  and  was  gone, 
Fortunata   saw   Richard   straighten   himself,    fling 

272 


FORTUNATA 

back  his  head,  and  look  at  her  intently.  He  is 
going  to  speak  now,  she  thought.  She  watched  his 
lips,  and  sharpened  every  nerve  to  hear  him.  Sure 
enough,  he  leaned  across  the  table  and  said  to  her: 

"Fortunata,  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

"Yes?"  she  answered,  laying  down  the  cherry 
she  held. 

"It's  none  of  my  business,  I  know,  but  the  thing's 
got  in  my  head.  An  idea  gets  hold  of  a  man  some- 
times, and  he  can't  shake  it  off.  Tell  me  how  you 
could  ever  think  of  marrying  that  old  Frenchman — 
Bichette,  or  whatever  his  name  is." 

She  listened  to  him  patiently,  and  excused  herself 
aJs  best  she  could.  "All  my  relatives,  my  friends, 
thought  it  was  a  good  match.  I  could  have  helped 
them.    They  advised  me — he  is  very  rich — you  know. ' ' 

"But  that  would  be  marrying  for  money!"  he 
cried,  as  though  it  were  an  unheard-of  thing. 

"One  must  live,"  she  answered,  soberly.  "A 
woman,  Dick,  doesn't  earn  her  livelihood;  marriage 
is  her  only  career." 

"I  can't  believe  that  you  would  do  such  a  thing. 
You  would  never  sell  yourself!" 

"That's  not  a  new  point  of  view.  One  must  bar- 
gain to  keep  alive.   One  gets  nothing  without  paying. ' ' 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  she  were  some  strange 
monster.    ' '  I  can't  understand  you, ' '  he  said,  bitterly. 

She  was  conscious  of  having  made  an  awkward 
answer.  It  seemed  that  to  Richard  she  was  always 
lacking  in  tact.  Her  want  of  diplomacy  came  possi- 
bly from  her  new-bom  desire  to  be  sincere.  She 
started  in  to  defend  herself,  then  suddenly  saddened 
and  hung  her  head. 

18  273 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IT  was  no  use;  she  could  no  longer  deceive  her- 
self. She  must  accept  the  fact  that  she  had 
ceased  to  hear  as  she  was  bom  to  hear.  She  was 
growing  deaf.  She  had  known  it  for  several  months, 
and  had  not  dared  to  give  shape  to  her  thought. 
If  she  faced  so  frightful  a  possibility,  she  was  lost. 
She  remembered  to  have  heard  her  mother  say  that 
this  infirmity  had  come  upon  her  as  a  young  woman, 
when  life  still  held  every  promise. 

'  *  My  God !"  was  now  Fortunata's  constant  thought, 
"I  know  that  you  won't  desert  me  like  this!  I  was 
bom  to  be  happy."  Yet  in  her  heart  was  a  voice 
telling  her  to  get  together  all  her  endurance,  all  her 
courage.  She  was  strangely  secretive,  had  always 
borne  her  own  burdens. 

The  winter  went  by,  yet  she  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  go  to  the  doctor — she  was  afraid.  One  night 
she  had  a  dream.  She  was  in  a  room  full  of  people. 
They  were  all  laughing,  talking  together,  or,  rather, 
their  lips  moved  and  she  heard  nothing.  Antonia 
was  there,  and  Eugenio  and  Richard.  They  did  not 
seem  to  know  her.  They  looked  through  and  walked 
past  her,  as  though  she  were  already  dead  and  for- 
gotten. To  be  so  cut  off  inspired  her  with  such 
loneliness  that  she  awoke  sobbing.  She  sat  up  in 
bed,   cold  with  dread,   her  heart   beating    in   her 

274 


FORTUNATA 

throat.  The  darkness  was  opaque,  heavy,  crushing. 
"I'm  going  deaf!"  she  said,  aloud.  She  was  as  cer- 
tain as  though  God  himself  had  told  her.  She  lit 
the  light  by  her  bed,  took  the  address-book  on  her 
knees,  and  looked  down  the  line  of  doctors.  She 
shivered  in  her  thin  nightgown ;  her  hands  trembled ; 
her  throat  was  dry,  as  though  she  were  dying. 
Doctor  Durini,  Via  Nazionale  58,  Ear  and  Throat 
Specialist.  A  repulsive  name!  She  could  sleep  no 
more,  and  sat  up  in  bed  the  rest  of  the  night  until 
the  east  was  streaked  with  red.  The  servants  were 
moving  about  the  house — she  knew  it,  rather  than 
heard  it — and  the  heavy,  muffled  footsteps  seemed 
treading  on  her  heart. 

She  breakfasted  in  her  room,  as  usual,  and  went 
out  without  seeing  Richard.  The  victoria  in  which 
she  sat  bounded  lightly  along.  The  fresh  air 
brushed  past.  The  motion  soothed  her,  and  she 
almost  forgot  the  nightmares  of  the  night.  It  was 
the  feast  of  San  Pancrazio.  Bands  of  music  were 
out  marching,  of  monks,  of  cantori.  The  contadini 
trooped  from  the  villages,  their  mules  gay  with  rib' 
bons  and  bells.  There  was  such  a  prodigality  of  sun, 
in  the  streets  such  pryamids  of  flowers  and  fruits, 
such  radiance,  such  a  dome  of  blue  sky,  as  to  put  to 
shame  a  Veronese.  In  passing  the  Church  of  Gesu, 
Fortunata  saw  the  priests  entering,  with  bowed  heads, 
in  sacramental  robes  as  flaming  as  the  fiery  angels. 

After  the  examination,  "Of  course  it  isn't  serious, 
Doctor?"  she  said,  brightly,  as  if  to  ward  off  a  fright- 
ful answer. 

"There  is  deafness  in  your  family?"  he  asked,  as 
he  polished  a  lens. 

275 


FORTUNATA 

"Yes,  my  mother." 

"Ah!"  He  looked  at  her,  and  her  heart  con- 
tracted.    "Sit  down,  Signora." 

It  seemed  the  trouble  was  hereditary,  and  she 
could  not  escape  it.  He  talked  of  "the  middle  ear," 
"the  absence  of  tympanic  disease."  "The  condi- 
tions of  sound  may  be  good,"  he  said,  "but  the  per- 
ception of  sound  may  be  faulty.  A  nervous  affec- 
tion is  apt  to  follow  shocks,  and  is  often  hereditary." 

She  looked  at  him  as  at  an  executioner.  "Why, 
this  means  that  I  am  done  for!"  she  stammered;  "I 
might  as  well  be  dead." 

He  went  on  to  tell  her  the  nature  of  the  disease; 
its  rapid  progress;  the  resultant  destruction  of  the 
ear-drum.     She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"Ah,  what's  the  use!"  she  cried.  But  he  did  not 
spare  her.  He  was  at  his  work  diagnosing,  sum- 
ming up  her  faint  chances.  She  looked  down  at  her 
hands,  clasped  in  her  lap.  They  seemed  to  her  piti- 
ful in  their  dapper  dogskin  gloves.  She  was  over- 
come with  pity,  not  so  much  for  herself  as  for  every- 
thing that  hopes.  She  had  worked  so  hard  to  be 
happy,  and  was  come  to  this!  The  affirmation,  she 
thought,  of  so  horrible  a  calamity  must  wither  the 
features  and  change  the  look  in  the  eyes. 

When  again  safe  at  home,  she  drew  her  chair  be- 
fore the  glass  to  study  the  ravages  in  her  face,  yet 
found  herself  much  as  usual.  All  at  once,  quite 
suddenly,  she  began  to  weep.  Cruel  sobs  shook  her 
as  though  they  must  wrench  her  to  pieces.  She 
leaned  her  head  on  her  arm  and  rolled  it  from  side 
to  side,  moaning,  "Anything  but  this!  Anything 
but  this!". 

276 


FORTUNATA 

Other  calamities  she  might  have  accepted  without 
a  murmur.  To  figure  as  a  heroine  would  have 
recompensed  her  for  all  suffering.  An  imaginary 
wasting  away  with  heart-disease  had  always  ap- 
pealed to  her.  Even  consumption  one  may  endure 
without  a  loss  of  dignity;  one  may  admit  it  without 
shame.  On  a  divan  one  may  flicker  elegantly  away 
holding  a  lace  handkerchief  to  the  lips,  all  the  life 
of  the  body  accumulated  in  the  exaggerated  eyes. 
Blindness  is  a  classic  calamity — large,  overwhelm- 
ing, sublime.  Even  the  unimaginative  feel  the  hor- 
ror of  an  eternal  night!  But  to  the  existence  of 
the  deaf  the  world  is  pitiless — ^what  excuse  is  there 
for  the  hard  of  hearing,  the  bawled  at  ?  To  be 
handicapped  by  so  sordid  an  affliction  is  like  being 
run  over  by  a  wheelbarrow  or  blinded  by  the  ex- 
plosion of  a  bottle  of  ginger-ale,  a  calamity  without 
a  touch  of  the  sublime. 

To  know,  to  feel,  to  watch  the  failing,  the  decom- 
position of  something  essential  to  happiness;  to  be 
given  over  to  these  futile  sounds  in  the  ears,  to  these 
roarings  of  a  cataract,  to  these  chirpings  as  of  a 
crazy  aviary,  to  these  cracks  like  the  creakings  of 
furniture  in  haunted  houses;  to  have  these  silly 
noises  shut  out  of  the  world,  and  in  the  end  to  be 
encompassed  by  a  relentless  stillness;  to  lose  the 
glories  of  music,  of  stringed  instruments  and  the 
organ,  the  genial  sounds  of  the  city,  the  rush  of  the 
winds,  the  roar  of  the  river — all  the  melodies  of 
earth.  Never  to  hear  a  human  voice  normally 
again,  nor  the  voices  of  little  children.  Never  to 
interchange  ideas,  being  to  being.  What  loneliness! 
What  a  cutting  off !    What  an  exile !    As  well  be  en- 

277 


FORTUNATA 

cased  in  the  six  boards  of  a  coffin,  an  apprentice  to 
the  grave — where,  too,  there  is  no  sound.  When  the 
heart  knows  such  bitterness,  why  will  it  not  give  up 
its  industrious  beating  ? 

Fortunata  thought  of  Rover,  the  dog  at  Stock-on- 
Tremp,  and  she  grew  sick  at  heart. 

One  morning,  as  Fortunata  awoke,  the  sun  was 
looking  in  at  her.  The  foliage  of  the  square  Was 
moving  in  the  breeze,  and  she  thought,  The  world 
is  too  beautiful  when  you  live  alone  with  the  creat- 
ure you  love.     This  life  is  killing  me! 

And  to  Richard  she  said:  "Let's  try  the  Palazzo 
Colibri — only  for  a  week,  a  few  days.  Think  how 
Aunt  Prudenzia  will  snap  at  the  board!"  He  pro- 
tested. "It  is  a  den  of  iniquity,"  admitted  Fortu- 
nata. "I  can't  see  why  I  like  it.  I  was  never 
happy  there.     It  must  be  in  the  blood!" 

Her  word  with  him  was  law,  and  thither  they 
went. 

The  Colibri  and  her  household  were  at  luncheon, 
eating  macaroni  off  the  chipped  Sevres  that  Fortu- 
nata had  known  in  her  happy,  disreputable  days. 

Shaking  hands  with  these  people,  she  had  a  sense 
of  inexpressible  sadness,  finality — as  though  saying 
good-bye  to  them  forever.  In  the  house  that  had 
known  her  without  a  heart,  without  a  conscience, 
she  hoped  to  lose  the  ache  at  her  heart,  to  be  free 
of  horror  and  the  pains  of  love.  "You  are  grow- 
ing deaf,"  said  the  specialists,  "You  are  growing 
deaf,"  said  the  greatest  doctors  of  the  country,  and 
she  crept  off  to  see  them,  guiltily,  secretly,  as  to  a 
love-tryst. 

Fortunata  had  been  taught  that  a  woman's  duty, 
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FORTUNATA 

before  giving  alms,  or  speaking  the  truth,  or  living 
in  honor,  was  to  be  elegant  and  agreeable  and  charm- 
ing, and  now — !  She  must  fall  out  of  the  ranks  of 
the  women  famous  for  their  wit,  for  their  charm. 
The  deaf  are  rarely  attractive — suspicious  often, 
either  boring  or  insignificant.  And  she  had  so  loved 
admiration!  What  shall  I  now  live  for?  she  asked 
herself — to  eat  three  meals  a  day,  to  sleep  nine  or 
ten  hours,  and  be  comfortable.  Great  God!  one 
has  time  enough  in  the  grave  to  be  comfortable. 

Then,  again,  she  had  days  of  hope,  a  sickly  thrill- 
ing hope.  It  whispered  that  this  was  a  nightmare 
which  would  pass  and  she  would  wake  safe  and 
sound.  She  took  to  praying,  urging  God  to  strike 
a  bargain  with  her — promising  a  change  of  heart  if 
he  would  save  her.  For  the  first  time  she  realized 
the  sorrow,  the  pain  there  is  in  the  world,  and  she 
was  seized  with  pity,  not  only  for  herself,  but  for 
all  humanity. 

But  she  had  her  moments  of  revolt  also.  Her 
soul  asked :  Why  am  I  hurt  ?  Why  am  I  ruined  ? 
Why  I  more  than  another?  There  was  Antonia 
living  in  sin,  and  no  ill  came  upon  her.  There  was 
the  Princess,  always  intent  on  evil-doing,  and  harm 
passed  her  by.  Luigi  and  Guido  led  loose  lives,  yet 
they  were  never  punished.  If  God  lived.  He  was 
not  just!  But  immediately  she  was  afraid  of  her 
blasphemy,  fearful  of  more  calamity,  and  fawned 
on  her  knees.  She  could  not  sleep.  She  took  to 
trional,  vironal,  and  finally  to  chloral  to  break  up 
the  horrors  of  insomnia,  yet  her  face,  curiously 
enough,  showed  little  change.  No  one  guessed  her 
secret,  guarded  with  such  jealousy.     As  yet  her  in- 

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FORTUNATA 

firmity  was  not  pronounced.  If  she  was  spoken  to 
and  did  not  answer,  her  silence  was  put  down  to 
absence  of  mind  or  preoccupation.  If  she  mis- 
understood, she  was  quick  to  remedy  her  mistake. 
Richard  thought  her  more  silent  than  of  old,  less 
quick  to  catch  one  up,  more  respectful  to  others' 
opinions,  and  he  liked  her  the  better  for  the  change. 

She  lived  at  his  side,  in  her  heart  the  torment  of 
the  damned,  and  he  thought  her  happy.  Why  not  ? 
She  smiled  like  other  people.  To  any  one  who  had 
known  her,  it  was  pitiful  to  see  how  humble  she  was 
grown  with  him,  how  anxious  to  please.  Her  heart 
told  her  she  was  losing  him.  With  terror  she  real- 
ized that  her  indifference  had  been  her  power  to 
attract. 

At  times  he  tried  to  tell  her  what  she  was  to  him, 
repeating  himself,  short  of  words — yet  through  his 
labored  talk  pierced  a  regret  for  his  heart's  former 
emptiness,  for  that  easy  indifference,  rather  than 
these  pains  of  love. 

Strange  that  never  a  presentiment  had  stirred  her, 
never  a  whisper  of  coming  evil  chilled  her.  The 
thing  that  kills  comes  like  that.  One  turns  a  cor- 
ner, and  there  it  is,  full-grown  at  the  birth,  a  mon- 
ster horror.  She  had  seen  this  infirmity  gaining  on 
her  mother;  its  name  had  come  lightly  from  her 
mouth;  but  never  had  she  thought  of  the  curses  of 
heredity.  Others  had  so  loved  her,  making  smooth 
her  life,  that  she  imagined  that  God  himself,  who 
had  made  her,  finding  her  more  charming  than 
his  other  beings,  had  kept  her  for  a  particular  and 
personal  affection,  warding  off  from  her  the  evil  to 
which  the  flesh  is  heir, 

280 


FORTUNATA 

The  summer  was  come.  Rome  lay  inert,  ex- 
hausted by  the  ardor  of  the  sun.  Antonia  and  Fort- 
unata  sat  side  by  side  in  the  Palazzo  garden  in  the 
shadow  of  the  cypress. 

"Sorella  mia,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "give  a  Httle 
smile.  I  hear  from  Lord  Bolton  that  Ricardo  is  to 
be  promoted." 

Fortunata  watched  her  sister's  lips. 

"Ah,  Antonia,  that's  it.  I  had  hoped  so  much 
for  the  future.  Dick's  a  new  man  as  to  his  career. 
He  has  grown  ambitious,  desirous  to  succeed.  We 
might  have  been  so  happy.     Oh,  God!" 

' '  Why  do  you  say,  '  Oh,  God  ?' " 

"I  don't  know." 

"But  I  know.  My  little  sister,  you  are  unhappy. 
Something  is  eating  out  your  heart.  Tell  me  what 
it  is." 

In  this  sudden  glow  of  affection  that  had  drawn 
the  sisters  closer  together,  Fortunata  was  tempted 
to  confess  her  miserable  secret,  in  these  pitying  arms, 
however  incompetent,  to  seek  a  momentary  refuge 
from  her  sufferings. 

The  habit  of  a  lifetime — to  keep  silent  on  that 
which  concerned  her  most — made  it  hard  for  her 
to  speak. 

"Fortunata,  I  love  you  dearly.     Tell  me!" 

But  in  the  momentary  hesitation  the  impulse 
was  gone.  The  dusk  came  down  like  a  veil,  sweet 
and  damp.  The  Marchesa  passed  from  the  garden. 
Fortunata  remained  on  into  the  evening,  among  the 
whispers  of  the  night.  When,  finally,  she  passed 
through  the  dining-room,  at  the  table  there  was  no 
one  save  Eugenio,  who,  before  the  half-empty  wine 

aSi 


FORTUNATA 

glasses  and  crumpled  napkins,  sat  with  his  head  on 
his  hands.  At  sight  of  his  sister,  he  sighed  like  a 
furnace  and  let  his  head  sink  into  his  arms. 

"Are  you  ill?"  asked  Fortunata. 

"No." 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  Fortunata,  I  shall  never  be  free  again!  I 
shall  never  be  as  I  used  to  be.     I  am  lost!" 

"You  haven't  that  ancient  La  Valli^re  still  on 
the  brain — I  should  say,  on  the  heart?" 

"On  the  heart,  yes.  My  heart  is  sore — physically 
sore — as  though  it  were  rough  round  the  edges. 
The  thought  of  her  has  become  an  obsession.'^ 

"But,  Eugenio,  really  she  isn't  pretty;  she  has 
a  long,  pasty  face.  She  looks  like  a  powdered 
dromedary." 

"Ah,  but  did  you  ever  see  her  smile,  Fortunata? 
Have  you  ever  noticed  what  peculiar  eyes  she  has  ? 
Even  if  she  were  as  ugly  as  a  toad,  she  would  be 
more  fatal  to  me  than  another  Venus.  There  is  no 
one  like  her;  everything  she  says  and  does  she 
makes  her  own." 

By  watching  her  brother's  lips  Fortunata  had 
understood  him  to  some  extent.  Her  thoughts  had 
gone  back  to  their  treadmill.  After  all,  thought  she, 
Eugenio's  sorrow  is  more  decent,  more  becoming 
than  mine.  And  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  for  she 
was  always  much  affected  by  herself  as  an  object  of 
pity. 

On  retiring  that  night,  Fortunata  opened  an  un- 
used drawer  of  her  bureau  and  found  a  forgotten 
possession — a  pistol  that  had  been  her  father's.  It 
was  prettily  wrought  of  black  steel,  with  an  open- 

282 


FORTUNATA 

work  handle  like  lace.  It  lay  there  ominous,  fu- 
nereal. She  lifted  out  the  revolver  and  held  it  in 
her  hands;  she  looked  at  the  death-giving  trigger, 
and  drew  her  finger  down  the  cold  and  fatal  barrel. 
Such  a  trembling  seized  her  that,  as  she  put  the 
pistol  into  the  drawer,  the  crazy  old  bureau  rattled 
under  her  touch. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IT  was  Guide's  birthday,  or,  rather,  the  birthday 
of  the  saint  after  whom  he  was  named,  for  Guido 
had  had  a  saint  for  a  godfather,  incredible  though 
it  may  seem. 

It  was  a  dreary  night,  the  rain  fell  slantwise.  In 
the  streets  the  wind  walked  alone.  The  dinner- 
table  was  cleared,  and  books,  papers,  and  em- 
broideries brought  out.  An  attack  of  despair  had 
seized  Fortunata.  She  left  the  room,  and  from  the 
hall  window  looked  out  into  the  night.  The  shrubs 
of  the  garden  writhed  and  tossed  their  mad  arms. 
Meanwhile,  the  Princess,  as  was  the  custom  at  this 
hour,  had  retired  to  exchange  her  furbelows  for 
a  dressing-gown,  to  shed  her  debonair  curls  and 
draw  down  over  her  bristly  gray  head  a  skull-cap. 
After  her  Excellency  had  laid  aside  her  daily  glories 
for  this  severer  costume,  preparatory  for  bed,  she 
was  supposed  to  be  invisible — that  is,  etiquette  re- 
quired that  her  relatives  ignore  her  presence.  They 
must  neither  speak  with  her  nor  rise  at  her  entering 
the  room,  nor  offer  her  the  attention  due  a  woman 
of  her  rank  and  age.  Had  she  seen  fit  to  shoot  off 
a  blunderbuss  in  the  midst  of  them,  no  one  would 
have  dared  to  dodge. 

To-night,  at  the  customary  hour,  Nello,  candle 
in  hand,  drew  the  portieres   and  ushered   in  the 

284 


FORTUNATA 

Princess.  Her  ermine  dressing-gown,  stained  yellow 
with  age,  she  held  muffled  about  her  up  to  the  jaws. 
Her  sinister  cap  was  drawn  down  to  her  brows,  and 
her  big  white  face  wore  an  evil  look.  Forgetting 
that  she  was  invisible,  she  beckoned  Dacampagna 
to  her. 

"Guido,"  said  she,  in  a  strange  voice,  shrill  with 
asthma,  "this  is  my  birthday  present."  Her  hand 
disappeared  into  a  secret  pocket  and  drew  forth  a 
package  of  letters.  "Read  these,"  said  she;  "you 
will  sleep  the  better." 

He  took  them  to  the  light,  unfolded  them,  smooth- 
ed out  their  creases.  The  leaves  rustled  ominously. 
The  Princess's  asthma  was  very  strident.  From  the 
room's  far  side,  where  Antonia  was  reading,  came 
a  faint,  tremulous  sigh.  Slowly,  painstakingly, 
Guido  read  on.  All  at  once  his  glance  moved  to  one 
side  of  the  letter,  and  remained  fixed,  down-staring. 
His  expression  was  of  embarrassment — that  of  a 
person  who  feels  that  he  is  called  on  to  appear  high- 
ly mystified,  highly  indignant,  and  hardly  knows 
how  to  set  about  it. 

"Why,"  he  said,  uncertainly,  turning  toward  the 
Princess,  "this  is  Luigi's  writing,  and  his  name  is 
signed!" 

"Benissimo!"  called  Don  Luigi,  coming  eagerly 
forward.  "Those  letters  are  mine;  I  admit  it.  I'll 
thank  you  for  them.  They  can't  possibly  interest 
you,  and  besides — " 

"To  whom  are  they?"  asked  Guido,  distrustfully, 
putting  his  fist  down  like  a  paper-weight  on  the 
scattered  sheets. 

"To  a  lady;  some  one  you  never  knew.     No  con- 
285 


FORTUNATA 

cem  of  yours,  Guido,  though  I'll  tell  you — it's  no 
secret — they  are  to  a  woman — "  Luigi  rambled  on 
— "a  woman  I  once  met — " 

"To  a  woman!"  snorted  the  Princess.  "I  never 
suspected  anything  else!"  And  she  hugged  her 
dressing-gown  about  her  in  a  nervous  transport. 

Dacampagna's  jaws  dropped.  He  looked  at  sea. 
"What  does  this  mean,  Excellency?" 

"Per  San  Pedro,  you're  imbecile,  Guido!"  the 
Princess  shouted. 

The  Marchesa  Dacampagna  came  to  her  husband. 
"Guido,"  she  said,  in  a  minor  key,  "her  Excellency 
wishes  you  to  understand  that  those  letters,  or  so 
she  thinks,  were  written  to  me." 

Guido  gave  an  inarticulate  cry  and  sprang  to  his 
feet.  His  chair  fell  backward.  ' '  Per  Dio,  Antonia, 
if  I — "     He  raised  his  hand  threateningly. 

His  brother  caught  his  wrist.  "Be  careful!" 
warned  Luigi. 

As  an  outraged  husband  Dacampagna  was  a 
failure.  His  coat-tails  were  crumpled ;  he  was  short 
of  breath,  and — that  was  all. 

Luigi  released  his  brother's  arm,  went  to  the  fire, 
turned  his  back  to  it,  warmed  the  sole  of  each  shoe 
alternately,  sucked  a  toothpick  after  the  pleasing 
Continental  fashion,  and  smiled  very  sweetly. 

"Isn't  it  too  bad!"  said  Guido,  forlornly,  turning 
to  the  Princess.  "Here  I  have  been  feeding  and 
dressing  these  two — some  one  find  a  name  for  me 
to  call  them.  Oh,  God!"  he  cried,  in  a  sudden  burst 
of  fury,  "these  two  have  been  eating  up  all  my 
money!  Look  at  this  man.  He's  lived  on  me,  act- 
ually lived  on  me.     He  owes  me  the  very  shoes  on 

386 


FORTUNATA 

his  feet.  Why,  he'd  be  starving  in  the  streets  if  it 
weren't  for  me.  See  that  woman  over  there — she's 
a  bloodsucker,  a  leech.  For  God's  sake,  Antonia, 
speak!     What  have  you  got  to  say!" 

"Nothing — "  indifferently,  as  though  the  word 
were  hardly  worth  the  speaking. 

"Nothing,  Marchesa?"  Luigi  interposed.  "Sure- 
ly you  won't  let  such  an  accusation  pass.  Letters 
you  never  even  saw — why,  it's  folly,  madness!  Swear 
on  your  conscience,  swear  by  all  the  saints!" 

"I  shall  not  raise  my  hand  to  justify  myself." 
And  she  stood  looking  at  Luigi  as  though  in  his  eyes 
she  marked  a  new  expression. 

"Raise  your  hands,  indeed!"  grunted  the  Princess, 
who  wanted  to  be  noticed.  "Raise  your  hands,  or 
raise  your  feet.  You'll  have  to  raise  yourself  before 
you  are  clear  of  this.  Do  not  go.  Lord  Trevers," 
she  added,  turning  to  Richard,  who,  at  the  first 
sight  of  an  Italian  squabble,  had  tried  to  dodge  past 
her  and  get  through  the  door.  ' '  A  scandal  has  been 
going  on  in  my  house,  and  I  have  seemed  to  shelter 
it.  I  ask  you,  Lord  Trevers,  to  witness  my  horror, 
my  disgust — " 

"Pardon  me,  Princess,"  said  Dick,  looking  very 
uncomfortable,  "but  this  is  no  business  of  mine, 
and  if  you  will  let  me  pass — " 

The  Princess  ended  the  discussion  by  planting 
herself  in  the  doorway,  a  hand  on  each  side,  her 
camphor-scented  dressing-gown  blocking  all  egress. 

"Guido,"  said  she,  "your  wife  kept  those  letters 
in  a  japanned  box,  in  the  lower  drawer  of  the  ward- 
robe, in  her  bedroom.  I  was  looking  there  one  day 
— I  forget  for  what — and  I  found  them.     She  is  so 

287 


FORTUNATA 

careless,  the  box  wasn't  even  locked.  She  wears 
the  key  on  a  chain  around  her  neck  with  her  cross 
and  her  scapular.  She  wears  it  on  her  heart,  Guido, 
with  her  scapular  and  the  cross  of  God." 

"Antonia!"  her  husband  cried,  "where's  your  blue 
blood  and  your  fine  ancestors  you've  talked  and 
talked  to  me  about  ?  They  didn't  keep  you  straight. 
Look  here,  all  you  people — you  Excellency,  you 
Trevers,  you  Eugenio — you've  seen  and  you've  had 
your  laugh.  But  wait,  for,  so  help  me  God !  I  will 
be  even  with  her  yet.  She  shall  pay;  I'll  make  her 
suffer  as  much  as  a  woman  can;  I'll  drag  her  in  the 
dirt;  she  sha'n't  hold  up  her  head  again.  As  for 
you — "  turning  on  his  brother,  with  an  oath. 

Antonia  interposed:  "I  have  something  here," 
striking  her  breast,  "and  it  has  been  here  for  years, 
and  it  will  come  out.  Guido,  do  you  remember  our 
first  year  together?  How  I  cried,  how  homesick  I 
was  for  what  I  had  been,  how  unhappy  you  made  me  ? 
Why  ?  Because  I  was  your  wife  ?  That  is  no  excuse. 
You  had  one  set  of  rules  for  yourself  and  another 
for  me.  Your  rules  were  lax,  and  mine  everything 
that  was  hard.  You  didn't  even  pretend  to  love 
me;  then  why  should  I  love  you?  You  lied  to  me; 
then  why  shouldn't  I  lie?  You  deceived  me;  then 
why  shouldn't  I  deceive  you  ?  You  were  selfish,  and 
brutal,  and  neglectful  —  why?  Because  I  was  a 
woman.  That  is  no  answer.  Haven't  I  my  right  to 
happiness?"  Her  voice  rose  in  a  cry.  "Happiness, 
that  is  what  we  all  work  for.  Ought  I  just  to  have  sat 
down,  and  given  up,  and  held  my  breath  and  died?" 

Guido  was  a  bully,  and  as  she  blazed  and  paled 
with  anger  he  grew  servile. 

2S8 


FORTUNATA 

"I  don*t  understand!"  he  faltered. 

"No,  you  never  have."  She  spoke  monotonously, 
with  a  sudden  relapse  to  her  inattentive  manner. 

"There,"  shouted  the  Princess,  who  could  not 
keep  still,  "there,  that  is  what  annoys  me  so  in 
Antonia — always  the  femme  incomprise,  always  pos- 
ing as  unappreciated.  I  wonder,  Luigi,  that  you  have 
been  able  to  put  up  so  long  with  her  affectations. 
To  hear  her  talk  one  would  think  she  was  the  only 
woman  who  had  ever  had  a  drunken  cad  for  a  hus- 
band. In  fact,  the  only  woman  who  ever  had  a 
husband  at  all." 

"I  will  have  your  blood,  Luigi!"  stormed  Guido. 
"You  shall  fight  me  for  this." 

"Marchese,"  said  Luigi,  striking  an  attitude,  "I 
insist  on  nothing  less." 

"I  shall  be  your  second,  Don  Luigi,"  volunteered 
Eugenio. 

"One  thing  only  I  regret,  Guido,"  said  his  brother, 
"you  question  the  honor  of  a  lady  as  pure  as  one  of 
the  saints  in  heaven  and  as  holy  as  the  Madonna." 

The  Colibri  was  vexed.  "As  pure  as  one  of  the 
saints,  indeed!"  sniffed  she,  peevishly.  "There  was 
a  Saint  Mary  Magdalene,  so  I  have  been  told." 

Like  a  feeble  she-goat  on  the  outskirts  of  a  fray 
among  her  kind,  and  looking  on  bleating  and  agi- 
tated, thus  stood  Billford,  disregarded. 

"Never,  never,"  cried  the  kind  old  lady,  trying 
to  do  her  little  bit  of  good,  "can  I  believe  anything 
that  is  not  highly  to  the  credit,  highly  laudatory  of 
this  excellent,  this  admirable  gentlewoman!" 

The  Princess  Colibri  gathered  her  dressing-gown 
about  her,  came  shuffling  to  the  lamplight  and  stood 
19  aSg 


FORTUNATA 

beside  the  table,  looking  down  on  the  letters  with  a 
sly,  evil  smile.  There  they  lay,  poor  crumpled  papers, 
litanies  of  love !  ' '  You  are  my  life,  I  cannot  live  with- 
out you — I  love  you  so — "  stale  phrases  traced  in  pale 
ink,  yet  written  with  what  rendings  of  the  heart! 

"'My  heart's  desire,  lodestar  of  my  existence!"* 
read  the  Princess.  "Pretty  names,  but  not  original." 
And  she  smoothed  the  leaves  with  her  soft,  moist- 
looking  hands. 

A  trembling  passed  over  Antonia,  a  shudder. 
Guido  came  and  gathered  up  the  letters  and  laid 
them  together — the  poor,  accusing  papers,  from  age 
and  much  reading,  were  falling  to  pieces.  Antonia 
held  her  hands  over  them  as  though  to  protect  them. 
The  Princess  Colibri  drew  in  her  head  like  that  of  a 
snake  about  to  strike — her  low,  flat  skull,  her  small, 
evil  eyes,  her  cheeks  hanging  in  paunches,  her  gray, 
dead-tinted  flesh,  suggested  the  head  of  an  old 
flabby  cobra. 

"You  common  drab!"  she  hissed,  transported  by 
a  crazy  rage.  "I  am  sick  of  your  airs  and  your 
religious  cant,  and  your  fine  feeling.  What  are  you, 
anyhow?  Nothing  but  an  adulteress,  for  all  your 
church-goings.  What  is  the  good  of  your  saints  and 
your  host  of  angels?  For  the  last  four  years  have 
they  been  asleep  or  looking  another  way?  Isn't  it 
an  ugly  picture?  A  woman,  faint  with  the  kisses  of 
her  husband's  brother,  goes  to  praise  God,  lets  her 
knees  grow  to  the  paving-stones,  doubles  up  her 
obsequious  back —  'Mea  culpa,  mea  multa  culpa!' 
You  hypocrite!" 

"Yes,  you  hypocrite!"  Guido  burst  out.  "Why, 
Excellency,  I  have  seen  her — " 

290 


FORTUNATA 

"Hush,  Guido,  hush!"  soothed  the  Princess,  as- 
suming a  decorous  manner.  "We  must  be  fair;  we 
must  be  just.  Antonia  has  not  defended  herself. 
Antonia  has  not  spoken  yet.  Marchesa,  Saint  Peter, 
if  you  remember,  denied  his  Master  and  his  Lord. 
He  said,  '  I  do  not  know  the  man.'  Are  you  braver 
than  the  apostle?  Your  love  to  you  is  sacred;  I 
have  heard  you  say  so.  Come,  now,  a  direct  answer 
— are  these  letters  yours — yes  or  no?" 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Fortunata,  restless 
and  hag-ridden,  drew  back  the  portiere;  her  face, 
against  the  dark  hanging,  and  above  the  collar  of 
her  black  dress,  seemed  as  wistful  as  that  of  a  child. 
What  she  saw  arrested  her.  She  stood  still,  her 
hand  on  the  door-frame.  The  Princess  Colibri's  back 
was  turned,  but  if  ever  a  back  told  of  evil  tempers, 
malignant  rage,  venom,  it  was  her  Excellency's  spite- 
ful shoulders.  Antonia  faced  her  aunt,  her  hands 
crossed  on  her  chest.  She  looked  very  grave  and 
pale,  Guido  sat  humped  up,  a  glowering  look  on 
his  red,  sulky  face.  Across  the  back  of  a  chair 
hung  a  creased  ribbon.  At  sight  of  it  Fortunata 
realized  the  meaning  of  this  scene,  and  what  it  was 
that  Antonia  held  so  carefully.  Reasonless  impulse 
took  possession  of  her.  She  asked,  "Antonia,  what 
are  you  doing  with  my  letters?" 

The  Princess  turned  about  with  a  loud,  brutal 
laugh,  and  stared  at  Fortunata  offensively.  An- 
tonia merely  clasped  her  hands  the  closer,  as  though 
to  protect  a  possession,  long  lost,  refound,  and  in- 
finitely prized.  Guido  looked  round,  his  mouth 
hanging  open;  and  Fortunata' s  mother,  in  a  dark 
comer,  working  desperately  at  her  socks  and  drop- 

291 


FORTUNATA 

ping  her  stitches,  held  out  her  knitting-needles,  as 
though  to  ward  off  a  blow.  "Pray,  Fortunata,"  she 
pleaded,  "say  they're  not  yours!  It  seems  they  are 
not  nice  letters  at  all." 

"May  I  presume  to  ask,  Lady  Trevers,"  said  the 
Princess,  assuming  a  prodigiously  fine  manner,  "the 
wherefore  of  this  astonishing  comedy  ?  Believe  me, 
the  part  you  affect  is  worn  out,  stale.  The  role  of 
self-sacrifice  is  not  in  your  repertoire;  you  act  it 
badly,  and  appear  very  foolish." 

"Don  Luigi,"  said  Fortunata,  calmly,  "perhaps 
you  can  convince  her  Excellency." 

"Don  Luigi,"  sneered  the  Princess,  "has  neat 
ankles  and  can  dance  the  cancan  well,  or  so  I  am 
told;  but  as  to  being  a  truthful,  an  honorable 
gentleman — " 

"  He's  a  liar!    He's  a  scoundrel!"  bawled  Guido. 

Luigi  went  across  to  Antonia.  "Marchesa,  will 
you  let  me  have  the  letters?" 

Without  a  word  she  gave  him  both  her  hands, 

"You  have  seen,  Princess,  and  you,  Guido,"  Don 
Luigi  said,  not  without  dignity,  "that  these  letters 
•are  in  no  way  compromising  when  written  to  a 
young  girl  free  to  marry.  They  are,  as  you  must 
have  noted.  Excellency,  and  you  again,  Guido,  noth- 
ing but  the  expression  of  a  very  deep  love  I  have 
known  for  Signorina  Rivallo — if  I  may  say  so  with- 
out offence  to  Lady  Trevers — a  profound  and  unan- 
swered affection." 

"Who  shall  ever  account  for  taste?"  his  voice 
seemed  to  say.  Resigned,  he  bowed  a  head  as  brown 
and  glossy  as  a  seal's.  After  a  pause,  with  one  of 
his  sad  and  tender  smiles:   "These  letters  are  of  no 

292 


FORTUNATA 

value  to  Lady  Trevers;  they  have  no  literary  merit, 
and  so — "  He  opened  his  handsome  hands  over  the 
fire.  The  papers  fluttered  down  into  the  flames. 
Antonia  gave  a  cry  of  reproach.  The  pages  with- 
ered, blackened,  fell  in  ashes.  She  watched  them 
burn  with  a  pale  and  crazy  face. 

"Your  admission  is  spontaneous,  Luigi,  circum'. 
stantial,"  sneered  the  Princess.  "Your  letters  are 
to  Fortunata — good,  yet  I  find  them  in  the  pos- 
session of  Antonia.     How  do  you  explain  that?" 

"Yes,  how  do  you  explain  that?"  bellowed  Guide. 

"Her  Excellency  is  confused,  has  forgotten.  Her 
Excellency  is  truth  itself,"  audaciously  interposed 
Fortunata ;  '  *  she  is  incapable  of  an  unworthy  action, 
as  we  all  know.  Besides,  she  loves  Antonia.  There 
is  a  mistake,  a  trifling  matter,  that  is  all.  Those 
letters  were — " 

"In  a  japanned  box,"  roared  Dacampagna,  "in 
Antonia' s  bureau  drawer." 

"I  have  a  japanned  box,"  said  Lady  Trevers, 
blandly.     "I  have  a  lower  drawer." 

"They  think  you  are  a  fool,  my  poor  Dacam- 
pagna," sighed  the  Princess. 

"I  can  convince  you,  Guido!"  cried  Fortunata. 
"Question  Francesca.     She  is  a  truthful  child." 

"Francesca,  where  is  Francesca?  Some  one  call 
Francesca!"  and  around  spun  Guido,  as  though  on 
a  pivot. 

"Will  you  bring  her  here.  Miss  Billford?"  asked 
Fortunata;   "or  you  go,  Eugenio?" 

"Don't  stir,  Eugenio!"  countermanded  the  Prin- 
cess. "Billford,  don't  move!  Sit  down,  you  silly 
old  thing!    They  are  capable  of  teaching  the  child 

293 


FORTUNATA 

her  answer.  Go  yourself,  Guido,  and  bring  Fran- 
cesca  back." 

He  went,  making  a  great  noise  with  his  feet,  as 
always  when  watched  or  of  importance.  Scowling, 
he  passed  his  wife;  flinching,  he  skirted  around  his 
brother.  Brutally  kicking  the  portiere,  he  stamped 
away.  They  heard  him  tumbling  about  in  the  dark, 
hitting  his  shins,  striking  matches,  and  swearing. 
Don  Luigi  took  out  a  pocket -comb,  combed  his 
gallant  mustache,  curled  it  up  into  his  eyes,  and 
stared  over  it  at  the  Princess  in  a  spirited  fashion. 

"For  shame!"  cried  he.  "What  harm  has  the 
Marchesa  done  you.  Princess  ?  Antonia,  the  Colibri 
can't  forgive  you  for  being  young  and  beautiful,  for 
being  kind  and  infinitely  loved.  Come,  come  away 
from  this  house,  where  you  bear  ingratitude,  sus- 
picion, insult!" 

Antonia's  looks,  her  thoughts,  were  still  with  the 
ashes,  and  all  she  said  was,  "Why,  Luigi,  why  burn 
them?" 

"Tee-hee!"  tittered  the  Princess,  with  a  wheezing 
in  her  chest;  "how  fond  Antonia  seems  of  Fortu- 
nata's  letters!" 

Guido  came  plunging  back,  his  red  face  and  burly 
jaw  glowering  in  the  doorway.  By  the  shoulder  he 
thrust  in  the  bewildered  Francesca,  in  pitiful  dis- 
hevelment.  A  comb  she  held  in  one  hand,  and  in 
the  other  the  rat  or  stuffing  of  her  pompadour.  The 
poor  child,  unused  to  being  so  pushed  into  promi- 
nence, gave  strange,  ingratiating  nods  and  skips. 

Fortunata  drew  her  sister  to  her  with  a  gesture 
of  protection  and  tenderness. 

"Come,  carissima,  tell  her  Excellency  and  An- 
294 


FORTUNATA 

tonia  of  a  certain  talk  you  once  overheard  between 
Don  Luigi  and  myself.  Show  them  how  long  you 
have  kept  a  secret." 

The  Colibri,  in  her  arm-chair,  sat  crumpled  up, 
lost  in  sinister  thoughts,  in  ugly  reveries,  looking, 
for  all  the  world,  in  her  skull-cap  and  fur  dressing- 
gown,  like  that  baleful  king  of  France,  Louis  XI. 

"Everything?"  whispered  Francesca,  in  trepida- 
tion, pointing  to  her  aunt  with  her  comb. 

' '  Everything,  carissima. ' ' 

"Why,  you  see,  it  was  this  way,"  the  witness  be- 
gan, in  a  panicky  voice,  like  some  one  standing  too 
close  to  the  telephone.  "It  was  three  years  ago. 
Yes,  I  know  it  was.  I'll  tell  you  why,  because  I  left 
off  my  boneless  waists  just  before.  It  was  in  Au- 
gust. You  see,  I  went  into  corsets  on  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  July,  and  it  was  on  a  Monday — " 

"I  can't  hear  a  word  she  says  with  that  piece  of 
hair  in  her  mouth,"  interrupted  the  Princess. 

"It  was  on  a  Monday — at  least — no — it  was 
either  on  a  Wednesday  or  a  Sunday,  for  the  chimes 
were  ringing,  though,  of  course,  it  might  have  been 
a  feast-day.  Mother,  don't  look  at  me  like  that! 
I  know  my  hair  is  awful.  I  can't  help  it.  Now,  let 
me  go  on.  Where  was  I?  Well,  anyhow,  it  was 
early  in  the  morning.  My  boots,  I  remember,  were 
stained  with  dew.     I  had  on  brown  boots — " 

"Skip  that!"  snapped  the  Princess. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  was  standing  here" — pointing 
with  the  rat — "and  the  hedge  was  here — " 

"Skip  that,"  said  the  Princess. 

"If  I  skip  everything,"  demurred  Francesca,  "I 
sha'n't  have  anything  to  tell  about."    A  wisp  of 

295 


FORTUNATA 

hair  fell  over  her  face.    She  seemed  veiled  and  unin- 
telligent. 

"There,  dear!"  cheered  Fortunata,  catching  up 
the  hair.     "Now,  then,  what  happened?" 

"Why,"  pursued  the  orator,  "he  said  to  her,  this 
way,  quite  sudden,  with  a  bow  like  this  (laying  her 
rat  on  her  chest),  'Fortunata,'  said  he,  'will  you 
marry  me?'" 

"And  she  answered  him?" 

All  turned  toward  the  sound.  Antonia  it  was 
who  had  spoken.  Great  drops  of  sweat  hung  on 
her  brow;  in  one  hand  she  squeezed  a  dry  handker- 
chief. 

"She  didn't  answer  him  nothing,  I  mean,  she 
did  not  answer  him  one  single  thing." 

"Guido,  be  ashamed  and  ask  Antonia  to  forgive 
you,"  said  Fortunata. 

"Innocence  is  never  long  obscured,"  cried  grate- 
ful Billford,  and  clasped  her  devout  hands  in  the 
comer. 

Dacampagna  blustered  and  fumed  and  looked  un- 
commonly foolish. 

"Why,  Fortunata,"  he  stammered,  watching  the 
Princess,  "he  doesn't  call  you  by  name.  He  doesn't 
mention  any  name  in  his  slobbering,  rubbishy  letters." 

"'My  dearest,  my  darling,  my  beautiful'  are  the 
words  he  uses,  and  I  think — I  hope  without  con- 
ceit— that  they  apply  to  me  quite  as  well  as  to 
Antonia." 

"What  does  this  prove,  Guido?"  grinned  the 
Princess,  over  her  ermine  collar.  ' '  One  sister  is  not 
enough  for  your  ambitious  brother,  he  must  have 
the  two." 

296 


FORTUNATA 

Luigi  expostulated,  though  secretly  flattered. 

Antonia  was  no  longer  with  the  wranglers.  She 
had  forgotten  the  Princess,  the  envy  and  unkind- 
ness;  standing  motionless,  regretful,  she  had  for- 
gotten the  bully  and  her  innocent  lover.  Her  heart 
said:  "I  have  lived  on  an  illusion  and  been  fed  on 
nothing.  See  the  flimsy,  scattered  ashes!"  Eugenio 
came  to  her  and  gave  her  his  scented  handkerchief — 
the  prettiest  thing  imaginable — and  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  to  the  door.  She  went  with  him 
patiently,  feeling  her  way  as  though  suddenly  struck 
blind. 

"Injured  innocence  walks  very  humbly,"  growled 
the  Princess,  nudging  Guido.  "Dacampagna,  be 
advised :  no  woman,  maligned  and  justly  indignant, 
looks  like  that.  No,  no,  jealousy  of  Fortunata  and 
heartbreak  make  her  so  pale.  Marchesa,"  called 
her  Excellency,  "a  word  with  you!" 

Antonia  lifted  up  her  ghastly  head.  "I  am 
listening." 

"You  leave  my  house  to-morrow,  you  and  your 
lover  and  your  husband.  No  more  shadows  in  my 
halls  at  night,  no  more  stealthy  footsteps.  My 
palace  is  not  big  enough  to  hold  us  both." 

"Here,  or  elsewhere,  the  world  to  me  is  the  same," 
said  Antonia,  looking  up.     "Give  me  patience!" 

"Invoke  the  ceiling,  Marchesa.  Call  on  the  chan- 
delier. God  himself  knows  the  tenderness  you've 
wasted,  the  love  you've  thrown  away,  the  lost  be- 
lief, the  precious  illusion.  Titania  was  enamoured  of 
an  ass;  Pygmalion,  of  a  stone;  there  was  a  lady 
loved  a  swine ;  you  have  heard  the  old  English  song  ?'' 

' '  I  have  an  anchor  and  a  sure  refuge.  In  the  dark 
297 


FORTUNATA 

and  troubled  hour,   Heaven  is  my  help,"  replied 
Antonia. 

"My  wife  is  a  good  Catholic  and  a  good  woman," 
mumbled  Dacampagna,  who  had  had  a  change  of 
heart.  "She  will  be  even  with  you  yet,  Princess, 
for  abusing  her  so."  And  he  kept  up  an  ambushed 
fire  from  behind  Antonia,  near  the  door.  "The  Coli- 
bri  owes  me  four  thousand  lire!"  he  bawled;  "and 
by  the  Almighty,  she  shall  pay!  If  not  in  money, 
then  in  board,  for  I  shall  sit  in  the  house  until  she 
does.  She'll  treat  my  poor  wife  badly,  ^will  she? 
Well,  I'll  be  even  with  her  yet.  I'm  not  afraid  of 
the  Colibri;  no,  nor  of  any  other  hag." 

"Begone  out  of  my  house;  all  of  you!  I'm  sick 
of  you  all — of  the  sight  of  your  tiresome  faces.  Get 
out  —  begone!"  The  Princess  flapped  her  angry 
arms.  On  her  throat  the  veins  bulged  out  like 
angleworms.  Before  that  fury  Guido  shrank  into 
the  hall.  Luigi  held  high  the  portiere,  and  through 
the  doorway  paced  Antonia  with  the  lost  look  of 
a  somnambulist.  Next,  the  Contessa  scurried  away ; 
Francesca  in  her  mother's  steps;  Miss  Billford  on 
Francesca's  heels — all  three  laden  with  parapher- 
nalia, and  urging  one  another  to  flight. 

"It  wasn't  fair  to  interfere  in  Antonia's  affairs," 
reproved  Eugenio,  as  he  passed  his  sister,  and  he, 
too,  went  out.  Only  the  Colibri  and  Fortunata 
remained,  and  Fortunata's  tall  husband.  Lighting 
a  candle,  the  Princess  looked  across  the  flame  at 
her  niece;  wavering  shadows  spread  over  her  Ex- 
cellency's sly,  soft-featured  face.  Her  eyes,  semi- 
closed  and  shining,  recalled  the  gaze  of  the  com- 
pelling Buddha. 

298 


FORTUNATA 

"Surely,  Fortunata,  I  have  always  been  your 
friend!  When  have  I  ever  failed  you?  The  older 
I  grow,  the  more  I  find  that  to  love  no  one  is  the 
only  freedom.  Then,  at  least,  one  is  immune.  In- 
gratitude cannot  hurt."  There  were  tears  beneath 
the  evil  lids,  tears  of  vexation,  of  wounded  trust. 
The  eyes  shrank,  like  those  of  a  serpent;  the  cheeks 
twitched.  Fortunata  was  shocked,  as  at  an  in- 
decency, and  looked  down.  She  wished  to  be  for- 
given, yet  knew  not  what  to  say.  The  Princess 
passed  into  the  hall,  padding  in  her  bedroom  slip- 
pers; yet  unable  to  forbear  a  final  prod,  she  thrust 
into  the  room  her  malevolent  head.  "I  pity  you, 
Lord  Trevers.  You  think  to  have  a  wife,  and  are 
bound  to  a  monster  in  a  woman's  body,  a  fiend  of 
ingratitude,  of  vanity,  of  lying,  of  dissimulation." 
Her  Excellency's  asthma,  the  crackings  in  her 
chest,  choked  her.  She  let  fall  the  portiere.  They 
heard  her  shuffling  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

IT  was  the  Feast  of  San  Giovanni  and  midnight. 
The  bells  of  the  Church  of  Gesii  set  up  of  a  sud- 
den a  mighty  clanging,  a  summoning  to  mass.  From 
the  basement  of  the  palace — somewhere,  and  all  at 
once — two  voices  sang  out  in  pleasant  concord  "La 
Beir  Amica" — Guido  and  Luigi.  They  had  kissed 
on  both  cheeks  and  made  up,  and  cried,  perhaps, 
and  were  firm  friends  again. 

" '  She  gave  me  a  glance,  a  side  glance, 
And  I  btom,  I  perish  like  a  flame.' " 

Guido's  bass  made  a  fine  second  to  Luigi's  soar- 
ing tenor,  and  they  finished  with  all  manner  of 
trills. 

Fortunata  seated  herself.  Her  chair  had  been 
a  monk's  stall.  It  was  carved  in  devils  and  obscene 
monsters.  A  smile,  faint,  elusive,  flitted  across  her 
face.  Lord  Trevers  stood  in  the  embrasure  of  the 
window,  mute,  seeming  very  broad  and  big  in  the 
narrow  Venetian  archway.  He  came  forward  into 
the  lamplight  and  looked  intently  at  his  wife,  with 
an  expression  unfamiliar  to  her — an  expression  at 
once  critical  and  sad — as  one  might  study  a  stranger 
whose  features  resembled  an  unforgotten  face, 
evoked  melancholy  remembrances. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?"  she  asked,  imeasily. 
300 


FORTUNATA 

He  was  thinking  that  this  pale,  young  woman  be- 
fore him  recalled  a  certain  girl  whom  he  had  once 
watched  dance  at  a  ball,  in  a  very  scanty  bodice. 
He  was  thinking  that  this  pretty,  elusive  creature 
did  not  always  speak  the  truth.  Yet  all  he  said 
was,  "Fortunata!  how  could  you  deceive  me  as  you 
did  about  the  Bishop?" 

"Ah,  Richard!"  she  burst  out  in  unfeigned  de- 
spair, "must  I  always  hear  about  that  Bishop?" 

"It  is  no  use,  I  can't  fool  myself.  I've  tried  and 
tried,  yet  always  the  doubt  comes  back,  over  and 
over  again." 

She  had  not  heard  all  he  said,  but  from  his  ex- 
pression she  saw  that  he  was  unhappy.  She  took 
fright. 

"Richard,  you  don't  think  for  a  moment  that 
those  letters  are  mine?" 

"You  said  they  were." 

"Why,  Dick,  you  know  the  story;  all  Rome  knows 
it.     How  can  you  imagine — " 

"Then  you  told  a  lie?" 

"To  help  my  sister,  yes." 

"You  always  have  a  good  motive!"  he  cried, 
with  a  bitterness  of  which  she  had  thought  him  in- 
capable. "Is  your  reputation  nothing  to  you? 
Remember,  your  name  is  not  your  own,  but  mine." 

"Any  name  I  bear,"  proudly  from  Fortunata, 
"can  never  be  the  worse." 

"What  was  all  that  about  this  common  cad  and 
his  proposing  to  you?     Do  you  deny  it?" 

"I  did  not  understand  what  you  asked  me,  but 
I  deny  nothing,  and  am  ashamed  of  nothing  I  have 
ever  done." 

301 


FORTUNATA 

"Did  he  propose  to  you?" 

"Yes,  he  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

"To  think  of  your  letting  that  Jackanapes  tell 
you  that  he  loved  you!  Oh,  Fortunata!  When  I 
think  of  the  men  that  you've  danced  with  and 
laughed  with  and  looked  at  with  your  eyes!  What 
did  that  Italian  ass  say  to  you  in  those  letters?" 

"Richard,  those  letters  are  not  mine,  and  you 
know  it." 

"What  am  I  to  think?    What  am  I  to  believe?" 

"What  did  you  ask  me?" 

"You  fooled  me  once  over  a  little,  petty  thing. 
Then  why  not  again?" 

Her  life  long  she  had  been  very  eloquent,  uphold- 
ing false  statements  and  justifying  herself  by  lies. 
Now  she  found  that  truth  has  not  the  convincing 
voice  the  moralists  would  have  us  believe. 

"I  wish  you  could  see  my  heart  and  read  it!"  she 
cried,  flinging  back  her  arms.  The  gesture  showed 
her  pretty  shoulders.  She  tilted  up  her  tantalizing 
chin.  "Don't  you  believe  me?"  she  asked,  with  a 
kind  of  breathless  tenderness. 

Richard  inflated  his  chest,  a  Solomon  come  to 
judgment.  His  young  face  took  on  a  stern,  hard 
look. 

"If  those  letters  are  not  yours,  Fortunata,  then 
you  have  a  habit  of  falsehood,  for  you  claimed  them 
without  hesitation,  so  naturally,  so  well." 

She  sat  there,  looking  lost,  no  longer  her  brave, 
supercilious  self. 

"You  are  cruel;  you  are  unkind!"  she  faltered. 

He  dropped  his  pompous  airs.  "Unkind ?  cruel  to 
you,  Fortunata?    Ah,  my  dear,"  he  cried,  with  a 

302 


FORTUNATA 

sort  of  despairing  tenderness,  "no  one  can  ever  love 
you  as  I  do!  It's  not  natural  to  worship  any  one 
as  I  worship  you.  I  can't  cure  myself,  although  I 
know  that  you  don't  love  me." 

"Richard!"  she  protested. 

"No,  no,  Fortunata,  you  don't  love  me.  You 
never  have  loved  me.  It  was  as  I  watched  An- 
tonia,  though  I  haven't  any  taste  for  that  foreign, 
tantrumy  kind  of  affection,  that  I  knew  where  I 
stood  with  you.  Trifles  came  back  to  me,  things 
that  I'd  forgotten.  I  am  nothing  to  her,  I  thought. 
It  was  as  though  I  had  had  a  slap  in  the  face." 

Richard  was  jealous;  she  should  have  soothed  him 
and  w^on  him  again.  For  once  she  did  not  move 
nor  speak.  A  lassitude,  a  paralyzing  weariness,  had 
come  over  her.  Now  when  she  could  have  spoken 
the  truth  and  made  him  love  her  forever,  she  turned 
away  her  face  from  him  without  a  word. 

Her  averted  cheek  showed  its  loveliest  curves; 
her  lashes  lay  in  the  blue  hollows  under  her  eyes. 
Trevers  could  not  look  away  from  her. 

"You  are  very  pretty,"  he  said.  "That  must  be 
why  I  love  you." 

His  voice  was  low,  and  she  had  ngt  imderstood 
him.  She  was  silent  and  hung  her  head.  She 
could  not  bring  herself  to  admit  that  she  had  not 
heard.  He  cleared  his  throat,  and  when  he  spoke 
again  his  voice  was  loud,  dogmatic. 

"I  have  been  taught  that  right  is  right  and  that 
wrong  is  wrong.  I  don't  understand  playing  with 
the  truth.  A  woman  who  tells  a  lie,  even  to  save 
her  sister's  honor,  is  not  the  woman  for  me.  Good- 
night," he  said,  suddenly. 

303 


FORTUNATA 

"Good -night.  You  are  hard  and  unmagnani- 
mous;  but  you  are  not  free  of  me  yet.  I  will  make 
you  love  me  as  you  have  never  loved  me  before." 

"It  is  not  in  love  for  you  that  I  am  lacking, 
Fortunata,"  he  answered,  very  pale. 

"In  charity,  then,  Richard.  Good-night."  And 
she  made  him  a  queer  little  bow,  like  a  well-mannered 
child. 

Next  morning,  on  her  way  to  the  colazione,  in  the 
hall,  Fortunata  met  Dacampagna,  redolent  of  money, 
of  barolo,  of  ill-humor,  calling  on  the  servants  to 
bring  down  the  luggage. 

"Ah,  here  comes  the  pretty  Signora,  who  claims 
her  love-letters  at  the  last  moment,  after  my  poor 
wife  has  borne  the  brunt  of  the  suspicion."  And 
he  posted  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  the 
familiar  reddening  of  the  forehead. 

Fortunata,  angry  at  sight  of  him,  felt  not  the 
faintest  fear.     "Let  me  pass!"  she  said. 

"Just  a  few  words,  Signora.  Christo!  I  could 
laugh,  though  it's  a  sour  joke,  to  think  how  four 
years  ago  you  fooled  me.  One  couldn't  kiss  the 
ends  of  your  fingers,  and  to  think  that  all  that  time 
Luigi — " 

"Let  me  pass!" 

"Though  I  always  suspected  that  divine  mouth 
knew  how  to  kiss." 

"Guido,  get  out  of  my  way!" 

"Not  until  I  taste  what  Brother  Luigi  has  so  often 
had." 

"Guido!" 

Dacampagna  heard  and  started,  guiltily. 

Antonia  was  dragging  herself  down  the  stairs,  as 
304 


FORTUNATA 

though  broken  in  pieces,  traiHng  after  her  the 
travelling  cloak  that  she  lacked  the  strength  to 
carry. 

"Go!"  she  said,  without  even  looking  at  her  hus- 
band, "and  get  the  trunks  together.  I  will  be  with 
you  soon." 

He  came  forward,  offering  to  take  her  cloak.    She 
waved  him  away,  unable  to  tolerate  his  nearness. 
"Go!     I  have  to  talk  with  my  sister." 
Immediately  he  was  all  cock-a-hoop,  like  a  dog 
that  has  been  whipped. 

"As  you  wish,  carissima.  Ever)rthing  shall  be 
ready."  Passing  Fortunata  he  muttered  an  un- 
repeatable adjective.  She  turned  pale,  then  red, 
nauseated  with  anger. 

When  he  was  gone,  she  said:  "Claiming  those 
letters,  Antonia,  has  made  every  one  turn  against 
me.     You  owe  me  thanks." 

"Thanks?    For  what?    To  you,  Fortunata?" 
"Antonia,  why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?" 
"You  ask  in  earnest?     Because,  Fortunata,  for 
four  years  you  have  deceived  me.     You  have  pre- 
tended to  love  me,  and  all  the  time  have  been  plot- 
ting to  take  away  from  me  that  which  is  dearest  to 
me  in  the  world.     Oh,  that  I  should  have  believed 
in  that  hypocritical  face!     I  saw  you  false  to  every 
one.     Why  should  you  make  an  exception  of  me? 
It's  your  deceit,  your  loathsome  deceit,  that  sickens 
me.     Last  night,  when  you  claimed  my  letters,  I 
saw  how  easy  it  was  for  you  to  tell  a  lie." 
"Then  this  is  the  way  you  take  a  sacrifice?" 
"Sacrifice?    Had  it  been  a  sacrifice  you  never 
would  have  made  it." 

*o  30s 


FORTUNATA 

"There  is  some  truth  in  that,"  said  Fortunata, 
who  was  essentially  broad-minded. 

"You  bring  misfortune,  Fortunata.  By  the 
saints!  You  have  an  evil  eye.  Think  of  the  men 
who  have  loved  you — Quesconti,  Monte  Varchi, 
de  la  Tour  Bichelle,  de  Brillac.  How  have  you 
repaid  them?" 

"Certainly  not  as  you  repay  your  lovers." 

"It's  your  vanity,  your  imappeasable  vanity,  that 
makes  you  such  a  scourge.  You  must  be  conquer- 
ing, taking  away  from  others,  destroying,  God  is 
just,  and  in  His  own  time  He  punishes.  Only 
through  your  pride  can  He  touch  you,  and  there  will 
He  strike."  The  Marchesa's  voice  was  loud  and 
vibrant.     Fortunata  understood  her. 

"Antonia,  if  you  knew  what  I  know,  you  might 
believe  that  I  am  already  suffering  under  the  Divine 
displeasure," 

"Oh,  you  have  done  me  an  irretrievable  wrong! 
You  were  the  cause,  you  knew,  yet  you  never  warned 
me.  Now  my  eyes  are  opened — great  God,  through 
what  suffering!  It  is  ended;  or  rather — and  this 
is  what  makes  it  so  sad,  so  pitiful — nothing  has  ever 
been.  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  never,  and  God 
must  give  me  the  strength." 

"You  call  a  great  deal  on  God,  Antonia.  Why 
not  ask  Him  for  a  little  gratitude?" 

"Gratitude  to  you  who  have  brought  me  to  the 
dust?" 

"You  are  unjust!  I  have  saved  you  and  rein- 
stated you  in  what  you  were  in  fear  of  losing." 

"Saved  me  from  what?  All  the  world  knows  I 
am — I  was — Luigi's  mistress." 

306 


FORTUNATA 

"Yes,  and  all  the  world  is  so  contemptible  that 
as  long  as  Guido  seemed  to  sanction  your  actions 
you  might  do  as  you  chose;  nothing  mattered. 
But  were  Guido  blind  no  longer,  you  know  his 
nature,  he  would  bluster  and  threaten;  he  would 
shout  your  story  from  the  housetops.  Where  would 
you  stand  then?    You  would  lose  everything!" 

"I  have  lost  ever3^hing.  My  world  crumbles. 
By  Holy  Mary!  Fortunata,  I  can't  get  over  your 
officiousness.  How  dare  you  appropriate  my  let- 
ters! Those  letters  were  written  to  me,  and  were 
for  me  only!    They  at  least  were  mine." 

Fortunata,  who  had  been  intently  watching  her 
sister's  lips,  answered,  "You  should  have  told 
Guido  so." 

"You  may  tell  him  yourself.     I  do  not  care." 

"Antonia,  what  I  offer  is  to  be  kept.  I  am  not 
a  Spanish  giver."  And  she  turned  away.  Be  good 
and  you  will  be  happy,  she  thought.  That  was  said 
by  some  one  who  surely  never  had  the  chance  to  be 
bad.  Here  I  have  done  my  life's  best  action,  and 
what  unthankfulness,  what  ingratitude! 

Turning  the  comer,  Fortunata  came  upon  her 
brother,  who,  in  a  frock-coat,  an  elaborate  waist- 
coat, and  more  heavily  scented  than  the  tuberose, 
was  polishing  his  hat  on  his  sleeve. 

"Ah,  Fortunata,"  cried  he,  taking  her  hands, 
"wish  me  joy!  It's  the  day  of  my  life.  The  world 
begins  for  me." 

She  did  not  understand,  did  not  hear  him,  but 
smiled  on  him  as  he  leaned  against  the  balustrade, 
gesticulating  and  shaking  his  hair  into  his  eyes. 

"She  says  she'll  go  with  me.  By  the  Madonna, 
307 


FORTUNATA 

asked  me  herself!  It  is  to  Tivoli  we're  driving.  I 
shall  drive  her  coach.  I  am  a  little  unsteady,  as 
you  see — been  celebrating.  If  I  am  run  over  on 
the  way  it's  just  my  luck,  for  life  is  very  sweet." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Eugenio, 
that  woman  is  as  silly  as  she  is  wicked.  She  means 
you  no  good.  If  she  makes  you  happy  for  a  minute, 
the  rest  of  the  time  you  are  more  wretched  than  the 
damned." 

"She's  fatal  to  me!"  sighed  Eugenio,  holding  on 
to  the  stair-rail. 

"Come  with  me  to  England,  my  brother.  I'll  find 
you  a  wife,  rich  and  pretty  too." 

"Northern  women  don't  appeal  to  me,"  he  said, 
putting  on  his  hat,  as  he  made  a  line  for  the  stairs. 
"The  best  face  in  England  can't  make  me  forget  a 
certain  face  in  Italy."  And  he  ran  down  the  stairs, 
repeating  poetry,  and  tumbling  over  himself. 

"He  is  happy,"  thought  Fortunata,  "but  vino 
rosso  can't  console  every  one." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

FROM  her  maid  Fortunata  had  heard  of  a  priest 
who,  through  a  holy  reHc,  worked  miracles, 
cured  the  sick,  granted  prayers.  He  was  a  young 
man,  it  seems,  of  the  hamlet  of  Posilippo,  close  to 
Rome.  His  village  was  transported  by  his  eloquence 
and  prophecies.  Hortense,  Fortunata's  maid,  was 
sceptical  with  regard  to  religious  matters;  yet  the 
man's  charity  she  had  heard  was  boundless.  She 
told  of  miraculous  cures  he  was  believed  to  have 
achieved  by  the  help  of  God.  Fortunata  listened, 
and  half  the  night  she  could  not  sleep  for  thinking 
what  joy  the  casting  away  of  a  mortal  infirmity 
must  inspire. 

The  dawn  found  Fortunata  sleepless,  feverish, 
possessed  of  an  audacious  hope.  A  true  Italian  at 
heart,  she  was  credulous,  superstitious.  She  meant 
now  to  exhibit  her  faith.  The  irate  Deity  must  be 
appeased.  He  must  work  in  her  behalf  a  miracle  to 
prove  His  strength,  His  bounty.  Her  days  would 
slip  back  into  their  pleasant  tenor,  the  horror  would 
vanish,  as  a  ghost  before  the  eyelids  of  the  morning. 

She  sprang  from  bed  and  flung  the  shutters  wide. 
Parallel  with  her  gaze  the  sun  hung  round  and  red 
as  the  yolk  of  a  monster  egg.  The  birds  tried  their 
voices  in  twitters,  in  matinal  calls  that  inspire  the 
early  riser  with  a  sense  of  journeys,  of  adventures  to 
be  undertaken.     She  began  to  dress  for  riding. 

309 


FORTUNATA 

But  with  nervous  chill  and  sickly  excitement  her 
hands  trembled  so  that  they  retarded  her.  She 
caught  up  her  riding-crop,  and,  opening  the  door, 
stepped  down  the  staircase,  guided  by  the  cold 
marble  balustrade.  The  suits  of  armor,  with  eye- 
less sockets,  leaned  on  their  spears  like  sentinels. 
In  the  sala  Nello  was  opening  the  shutters  and  let- 
ting in  the  salutary  sun. 

"Nello!" 

The  old  man  turned  to  see  Fortunata  standing  in 
the  doorway  like  a  retarded  phantom. 

"I'm  going  to  ride.  Tell  Gaspare  to  saddle 
Zuleika." 

"Ah,  scusi,  but  the  Signorina  must  first  eat."  He 
could  never  teach  himself  to  say  Signora. 

When  the  food  was  brought  she  scarcely  touched 
it.  At  the  first  sound  of  hoofs  in  the  court  she 
thrust  the  plate  aside  impatiently;  she  sprang  down 
the  steps  into  the  court,  mounted,  and  as  she  evened 
the  reins:  "Zuleika  is  growing  old,  Gaspare.  How- 
ever useless  she  gets,  she  must  always  be  cared  for. 
Tell  me,  Gaspare,  the  way  to  Posilippo." 

The  man  explained,  pointing  with  his  brawny 
arm,  the  sleeve  of  his  red  woollen  shirt  rolled  up 
above  his  elbow. 

"I  remember,  I  have  passed  there  often."  And 
she  set  the  horse  at  a  rapid  trot  for  the  open  country. 
The  sun  dazzled  her;  the  wind  made  her  cheeks 
bum.  Zuleika  and  herself  were  one,  as  in  those 
morning  rides  of  her  girlhood. 

Bitterly  she  realized  that  she  was  bom  for  happi- 
ness, to  draw  from  daily  incidents  a  secret,  a  pene- 
trating pleasure.    A  year  ago  what  a  marvel  this 

310 


FORTUNATA 

ride  would  have  been  to  her!  It  was  well  after 
midday  when,  white  with  dust,  and  snarled  at  by 
all  the  dogs  of  the  village,  she  rode  into  the  open 
place  before  the  Church  of  Posilippo.  A  low,  white 
plaster  building,  vouted,  arched,  with  a  floor  of 
earth  and  a  squat  belfry.  She  gave  her  horse  in 
charge  of  an  old  peasant  smoking  a  cigarette  and 
sunning  himself,  then  went  toward  the  doorway, 
whence  issued  a  man's  voice,  protesting,  imploring, 
adjuring.  Because  of  her  habit  she  dared  not  go 
in,  but  leaned  against  the  door,  her  hands  hanging 
down  at  her  side,  her  riding-crop  hidden  in  the  folds 
of  her  skirt. 

Stern  and  wan  in  a  vapor  of  incense,  the  priest's 
face  arrested  her.  He  was  a  pale  young  man  with 
blazing  eyes.  He  fiimg  his  arms  wide,  his  hands 
shivering  over  the  congregation.  He  thundered  and 
beat  his  breast  with  the  fervor  of  a  fanatic.  He  was 
hoarse  as  a  raven,  the  sleeves  of  his  surplice  flapped 
like  wings;  eloquent,  no  doubt,  he  was,  though 
Fortunata  did  not  listen  overmuch.  The  dialect  he 
spoke  was  hard  to  follow.  The  congregation  it  was 
that  held  her.  Peasants  from  neighboring  villages 
in  their  holiday  clothes — the  women  in  gay  shawls 
and  head-dresses,  the  men  in  multi-colored  shirts. 
As  the  young  priest  uttered  the  sacred  names,  the 
saints',  the  Blessed  Virgin's,  the  children  of  the  soil 
swayed  and  bowed  and  bent  down  like  a  field  of 
wheat  swept  by  the  wind.  There  was  something 
inexpressibly  touching  in  these  devout,  unconscious 
faces;  in  the  clasped  hands,  coarse  and  twisted,  and 
very  often  dirty,  held  up  in  prayer.  An  immense 
pity,  a  boundless  love,  took  hold  of  Fortunata  for 

3" 


FORTUNATA 

all  humanity.  She  read  in  many  faces  a  profound 
knowledge  of  sorrow.  She  thought,  You  must  have 
suffered,  and  you,  and  you,  to  look  and  weep  so. 

At  the  elevation  of  the  Host,  the  acolyte  lifted 
his  thin  little  arm  and  shook  the  bell.  She  prayed 
as  she  never  had  prayed  before,  to  the  Christ,  whom 
in  grief  we  all  invoke,  rather  than  to  the  far-off  and 
terrible  Jehovah.  "Incarnate  love  who  took  shape 
among  us,  Saviour  of  humanity,  Jesus,  son  of  a 
woman,  have  mercy  on  me!  Already  whispers, 
faint  noises,  sounds  of  the  winds  in  the  trees  escape 
me.  I  have  no  enemy  that  I  could  wish  to  suffer 
so.     Cut  me  not  off.  Redeemer  of  the  world!" 

It  was  over,  the  tinkling  bell  ceased,  the  Spirit 
had  passed,  and  no  miracle  had  taken  place.  Fortu- 
nata  suffered  a  change  of  heart.  She  was  shaken 
with  disgust  for  the  dirty,  ill-smelling  rabble,  for 
their  filthy  hands,  for  the  very  daylight. 

The  young  priest  wiped  his  forehead ;  his  face  in 
repose  was  common  enough ;  he  blew  his  nose  noisily, 
and  from  the  pulpit  down  he  came  holding  up  his 
surplice,  showing  his  cobbled  boots  and  plebeian 
ankles.  Fortimata  was  disillusioned.  Turning,  she 
went  out,  paid  the  peasant  who  had  tended  her 
horse,  and  moimted. 

"The  Padre,  the  Padre!"  and  the  men,  bare- 
headed, crowded  about  the  church.  The  women 
held  high  their  little  children  to  see  the  Father  pass. 

Fortunata  turned  Zuleika  toward  Rome,  gave  one 
swift  glance  back  over  her  shoulder,  and  away  furi- 
ously she  galloped.  Had  one  of  those  peasants 
looked  from  his  worshipping  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  that  pallid  face  covered  by  a  black  veil,  he  might 

312 


FORTUNATA 

have  had  food  for  thought.  The  torch  of  faith,  that 
had  lately  burnt  so  fiercely,  was  gone  out,  and  in 
her  night  she  did  not  want  to  believe.  To  be  cured 
of  her  deafness  she  no  longer  prayed.  Indignation 
against  fate  alone  possessed  her. 

At  the  gates  of  the  Palazzo  Colibri,  late  in  the  night 
and  though  the  weather  was  capricious,  a  hurdy- 
gurdy  played,  while  men  and  girls  danced  in  a  ring. 
The  Palazzo  door  was  open ;  the  radiance  of  the  hall- 
lamp  spread  down  the  stairs  like  a  silver  sheet.  A 
man  in  riding  clothes  stood  on  the  highest  step. 

"Santa  Maria!"  screamed  the  dancers,  and  they 
scampered  in  pretended  fright,  as  a  horse,  dark  with 
sweat  and  ridden  by  a  woman  in  a  black  habit, 
dashed  under  the  reverberating  archway  in  a  volley 
of  hoof-beats. 

The  horse's  sudden  halt  flung  the  rider  forward. 

"Fortunata!" 

It  was  Dick  who  held  her,  or  she  would  have 
fallen.  She  tried  to  smile  as  she  shook  her  foot  free 
of  the  stirrup. 

' '  Fortunata,  what  an  awful  day !  For  God's  sake, 
where  have  you  been?"  And,  glad,  triumphant,  he 
went  with  her  in  his  arms  up  the  stairs  and  into  the 
hall. 

Too  tired  to  answer,  she  laid  her  cheek  on  the 
rough  tweed  of  his  coat.  She  was  deathly  pale.  Her 
lips  were  white;  her  nostrils  throbbed  as  though  she 
had  been  running;  her  hair,  clotted  with  dust  and 
damp,  lay  dark  on  her  forehead ;  her  eyes,  be- 
tween their  long  lashes,  kept  the  secrets  of  the 
night. 

"My  darling,  the  rain  overtook  you!  Your  coat 
313 


FORTUNATA 

is  wet;  your  hands  are  cold.     I  can  feel  your  heart 
beat." 

All  at  once  she  opened  wide  her  magical  eyes.  In 
each  was  a  tear.  She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck; 
their  faces  touched;  her  long  habit  was  swathed 
around  her  like  the  folds  of  a  shroud. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

SHE  saw  that  nothing  could  cure  her.    She  said, 
"We  might  as  well  go  home." 

The  season  was  over.  Balls,  dinners,  fesias  were 
no  more.  They  sat  at  home  on  either  side  of  the 
lamp,  like  old  married  people.  It  was  pitiful  to  any 
one  who  had  known  Fortimata  to  see  her  sitting, 
like  Griselda,  humbly  knitting.  Richard  read  the 
English  magazines,  the  sporting  papers,  and  trashy 
love  stories,  for  this  Hercules  delighted  in  simple, 
bread-and-butter  romances.  At  the  jokes  he  laughed 
conscientiously,  but  he  no  longer  explained  them, 
as  of  old,  and  this  little  incident  proved  to  her  how 
she  had  fallen  in  his  esteem,  his  love.  She  would 
lay  down  her  work  and  look  across  at  him  with  a 
look  inexpressibly  wistful  and  tender. 

She  was  tempted  to  tell  her  husband,  to  ask  the 
help  of  his  common  sense,  his  normal  outlook.  Then 
she  remembered  his  impatience  of  illness,  his  scorn 
of  infirmity,  and  her  courage  failed  her.  The  prac- 
tice of  years  in  crowded  ball-rooms,  in  chattering 
crowds,  hearing  only  one  word  out  of  a  thousand, 
had  taught  her  to  watch  the  lips  of  those  who  spoke 
to  her.  She  was  never  off  her  guard,  as  afraid  of 
discovery  as  a  criminal.  Her  face,  she  feared,  was 
growing  to  have  the  strained  expression,  the  anxious 
cock  of  the  head  peculiar  to  the  deaf. 

31S 


FORTUNATA 

Her  cleverness  was  superficial;  no  serious  study 
had  ever  held  her.  Even  novels  did  not  appeal. 
She  had  been  so  intent  upon  making  of  her  own  life 
a  romance  that  the  imaginary  adventures  of  im- 
aginary people  could  not  distract  her. 

Fortunata  was  growing  thinner  with  each  day. 
Her  eyes  were  startling,  so  big  did  they  seem  in  her 
little  pointed  face. 

"I  shall  take  you  for  a  trip,"  announced  Richard. 
"Where  would  you  like  to  go?" 

"I'll  go  where  you  go,"  she  answered. 

"To  Venice,  then,"  Dick  declared.  "Venice  is  a 
capital  place." 

"Where?" 

"To  Venice.  There  are  mosquitoes  there  now, 
to  be  sure;  and  I  don't  know  how  healthy  it  is  at 
this  season;  but  ever  since  I've  known  you,  Fortu- 
nata, I've  so  wanted  to  go  there  with  you!" 

"To  Venice,  then,"  said  Fortunata,  with  all  the 
humility  of  a  slave. 

He  who  has  not  seen  Venice  in  May  does  not  know 
what  enchantment  the  earth  can  hold.  The  spring 
becomes  the  Adriatic  as  autumn  becomes  Rome. 
A  vaporous  somnolence  clings  to  this  city  of  islands, 
a  sort  of  amorous  tranquillity.  Here,  among  the 
hooded  gondolas,  among  the  palaces  where  love 
seems  to  hide,  even  inexperienced  hearts  are  stirred 
with  the  hope  of  a  happiness  known  and  yet  full  of 
mystery. 

Venice  is  romantic,  chimeric,  essentially  feminine; 
no  wonder  the  poets  called  her  "La  Bella."  The 
silent  course  of  her  canals,  the  noiseless  passing  of 

316 


FORTUNATA 

her  gondolas,  lend  a  charm  fabulous  and  melan- 
choly. "Venice  is  dying,"  they  say.  "Venice  is 
deserted!"  And  yet  she  must  have  lacked  some- 
thing in  the  days  of  her  splendor — the  poetry  of  her 
decline  through  the  Italian  spring. 

Venice  is  for  the  young  and  happy.  The  failures, 
the  disappointed,  should  never  come  here.  The  old 
hopes  will  stir,  the  old  thirst  for  achievement,  the 
old  belief  in  happiness. 

Among  other  scenes  and  strange  faces,  far  away 
from  the  doctor  who  had  told  her  of  her  misfortune, 
Fortunata  could  almost  believe  that  she  had  suffered 
from  a  dream,  a  hideous,  prolonged,  unutterable 
nightmare!  She  deceived  herself  into  thinking  she 
heard  again.  Later,  these  days  of  hope  were  the 
saddest  for  her  to  remember.  Supposing,  she 
thought,  the  doctor  was  mistaken — doctors  are  not 
infallible — and  a  secret  joy  crept  through  her,  as 
torturing  as  it  was  sweet.  Richard  and  Fortunata 
were  together  now,  always.  She  felt  at  rest  with 
him,  and  safe.  Yes,  and  even  happy.  He  was 
nothing  but  a  big  animal.  True,  but  then  he  was 
such  a  pleasant  animal  to  have  about.  He  loved 
her,  and  love,  she  thought,  might  ward  off  from  her 
the  horror  lying  in  wait. 

It  was  their  last  night  in  Venice.  "To-morrow," 
said  Fortimata,  "we  must  be  back  in  Rome;  to- 
night we  will  be  happy,  very  happy,  won't  we, 
Richard?"  And  all  day  they  were  insanely  gay. 
It  made  them  laugh  to  see  the  pigeons  strut;  the 
tourists  made  their  sides  ache. 

When  night  came,  "Let's  hear  the  singing,"  said 
Richard. 

3x7 


FORTUNATA 

Fortunata  watched  his  Hps,  and  her  heart  con- 
tracted. "No,  let  us  go  where  no  one  can  hear  a 
sound,"  said  she. 

"All  right,  the  Lagoon  then."  Under  the  hood 
of  the  gondola  they  sat  side  by  side.  The  moon 
gave  to  the  water  an  opalescent  splendor.  Richard 
talked  of  their  future  and  made  plans.  She  put  her 
hands  in  his.  A  sort  of  deadly  joy  took  hold  of 
her — something  final  and  ecstatic  The  damp  air 
of  the  canal  blew  in  their  faces.  Other  gondolas 
passed  them  like  water  -  serpents,  rearing  up  and 
bearing  on  their  foreheads  jewels  of  light. 

"By  George,  I'm  so  sleepy  that  I'm  not  even 
hungry!"  said  Richard.  "After  some  beer  and  a 
fowl  and  a  little  cheese,  I  could  sleep  like  a 
log." 

In  their  room,  an  hour  later,  Dick  lay  abed,  his 
tousled  head  and  big  paws  suggesting  a  lion  sleep- 
ing. Fortunata  was  at  the  window.  The  air  she 
knew  was  full  of  music,  twang  of  guitars  and  voices 
and  song.  Across  the  Lagoon  the  ship  lights  danced 
like  water  -  sprites  crowned  with  flame.  As  she 
watched,  a  star  streamed  across  the  sky  like  a 
torch.  My  God!  she  thought;  why  in  such  a 
world  do  you  allow  pain  and  separation? 

They  returned  to  Rome.  One  day,  early  in  June, 
Richard  came  into  the  sitting-room  where  Fortu- 
nata was  arranging  the  flowers. 

He  said  to  her:  "I  have  been  around  to  the 
Palazzo  this  morning.  Old  What's-Her-Name,  the 
governess,  is  very  ill,  the  majordomo  tells  me.  I'm 
very  sorry." 

318 


FORTUNATA 

"The  majordomo  is  ill?" 

"No,  thingum-bob,  the  nice  old  lady,  the  gov- 
erness." 

"Come,  Dick,  come  with  me!"  She  ran  to  her 
room  and  flung  on  her  things. 

"You're  a  brick,  Fortunata!  We'll  go  together." 
And  they  went  out,  side  by  side.  At  the  palace, 
however,  she  dismissed  her  husband,  as  the  Princess 
had  given  word  to  admit  no  one.  Fortunata  pro- 
ceeded to  her  Excellency's  study,  where  she  found 
the  Colibri  hunched  up  with  her  back  to  the  door, 
warming  the  soles  of  her  feet  on  a  brazier,  for  the 
room  was  damp,  although  it  was  midsummer. 

"Zia,"  demanded  Fortunata,  "is  she  very  seri- 
ously— that  is,  dangerously  ill?" 

The  Princess  turned  sharply,  disclosing  a  sour 
face,  baggy  under  the  eyes,  and  green  with  pallor. 

"She's  inconveniently  ill.  The  Palazzo  is  turned 
into  a  hospital,  a  sick-house;  and  if  you  ask  me,  I 
think  she's  dying." 

"What?" 

"Per  Dio,  Fortunata!"  cried  the  Princess,  in  a 
burst  of  ill  temper,  "get  your  mother  to  lend  you 
her  ear- trumpet.     I  say,  Billford  is  dying." 

"But  it's  so  sudden.     What's  the  matter?" 

"Pneumonia,  or  something  like  that.  No  one 
but  an  Englishwoman  could  get  pneumonia  in  mid- 
summer; but  the  wonder  to  me  is  the  English 
aren't  extinct,  such  a  mania  as  they  have  for  fresh 
air  and  cold  baths;  no  collars  on  their  shameless 
old  necks,  taking  the  air  winter  and  summer." 

"Who's  looking  after  her?" 

"I  had  to  have  Doctor  Martini.  Pleasant  for  a 
319 


FORTUNATA 

woman  of  my  age,  all  these  preparatives  of  death. 
He  said  she  must  have  a  trained  nurse,  but  there  I 
set  my  foot  down.  I'll  have  no  spies  in  my  house 
creeping  about  my  rooms,  eating  my  food.  No,  per 
Sacramento!   and  so  I  told  him." 

"No  one  is  looking  after  her?" 

"Antonia  goes  in  now  and  then."  The  Princess's 
sneer  showed  her  teeth.  ' '  But  the  Signora  Marchesa 
likes  visiting  somebody  else's  room  better.  They're 
all  three  back  again.  Santa  Madonna!  I  couldn't 
get  along  without  the  board,  and  Guido  still  thinks 
'  Palazzo  Colibri '  looks  best  on  his  card.  He  has  no 
more  self-respect  than  a  dog  with  a  can  at  its  tail, 
and  the  Marchesa  and  Luigi,  Madre  di  Dio! — turtle 
doves  when  they're  not  tigers,  for  it's  the  old  story, 
Fortimata.  I  am  an  old  woman ;  all  I  ask  is  to  die 
among  decent  people.  I  have  seen  enough  crime 
and  filth  to  serve  me  a  lifetime.  The  first  years 
your  father  had  his  drunken  brawls  here,  and 
now — " 

"I  shall  stay,"  said  Fortunata,  unfastening  her 
cloak. 

"You  may  stay  or  you  may  go  to  the  inferno," 
the  Colibri  answered,  indifferently,  and  turning  her 
back  she  relapsed  into  her  former  position,  staring 
at  the  brazier,  knitting  her  brows,  her  old  lips 
twitching  with  vexation. 

For  two  days  and  nights  Fortunata  watched  over 
her  old  friend,  like  those  Sisters  of  Mercy  resigned 
to  death  and  the  consoling  of  others.  She  became 
acquainted  with  patience,  with  faith,  with  how  a 
fine  old  Christian  gets  through  with  life. 

They  buried  Billford  in  the  English  cemetery,  out- 
320 


FORTUNATA 

side  of  Rome,  far  from  England.  On  her  grave  they 
placed  a  squat  stone  cross,  elaborately  carved,  ex- 
tremely new,  jaimty,  pert,  utterly  unsuggestive  of 
Billford.  In  pace  requiescat  read  the  emblem  of 
faith. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

FORTUNATA  was  back  in  her  home  in  the  Via 
Vente  Settembre.  The  sitting-room  was  un- 
lighted,  but  instead  of  ringing  for  the  lamp,  she  sat 
down  forlornly  in  the  dusk.  Dick  came  in  from  his 
study;  in  his  hand  was  something  white;  he  held 
it  out  to  her.  Even  before  she  touched  the  paper 
something  told  her  what  it  was.  Yes,  the  telltale 
paper  beginning,  "I,  Fortunata  Rivallo — " 

Everything  gave  way  in  her,  and  she  confessed. 
"I  needed  the  money;  I  owed  it.  I  knew  the  Prin- 
cess wouldn't  give  me  a  lira,  although  she  had  plenty 
of  money  in  the  bank;  so  I  signed  her  name.  Yes, 
I  forged." 

She  waited  for  him  to  speak,  then  went  on,  fever- 
ishly: 

"We  understood  each  other;  we  always  combined 
and  worked  together.  I  didn't  think  she  would 
show  me  up.  By  everything  sacred,  Richard,  I 
have  paid  her  already,  but  I  was  fool  enough  not  to 
get  an  acknowledgment.  She  pretended  she  had 
torn  the  paper  up.  I  ought  to  have  known  better, 
but  I  believed  her." 

Fortunata's  courage  gave  out;  she  leaned  against 
the  table,  silent.  In  the  dark  she  felt  his  eyes  upon 
her.     Why  did  he  not  speak? 

"Light  the  lamp." 

322 


FORTUNATA 

"What?" 

"Light  the  lamp." 

He  spoke  in  an  impersonal  voice,  as  to  a  servant. 
Humbly,  she  obeyed.  The  shade  and  chimney 
rattled  together  imder  her  touch.  She  tried  to  read 
in  his  eyes,  but  his  face  was  in  shadow,  half-averted. 

"Your  aunt  writes  me  a  letter,"  said  he,  in  a 
voice  she  had  never  heard  before.  "She  tells  me 
you  first  borrowed  money  of  the  Marchese  Dacam- 
pagna."  Fortunata  watched  his  lips,  and  her  heart 
contracted. 

"Yes,  but  he  was  so  rude,  so  afraid  I  wouldn't 
pay-" 

"You  told  me  once  that  this  man  was  impertinent 
to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Yet  you  could  ask  him  for  money?  Great  God 
in  heaven!" 

"Where  are  you  going?"  For  he  had  caught  up 
his  hat  and  turned  to  the  door. 

"To  pay  your  debt,  Fortunata." 

"What?" 

"To  pay  our  debt." 

"But  I  have  paid  her,  Richard.  Before  God,  I 
paid  her." 

"She  says  not.  Which  shall  I  believe?  Whose 
word  shall  I  take?" 

"We  are  both  liars,  it  is  true.  There  is  little 
choice." 

"Forgery — did  you  know  that  meant  prison, 
Fortunata,  and  disgrace?" 

"I  know  so  little  of  business." 

"Men  were  hung  for  forgery  fifty  years  ago." 
323 


FORTUNATA 

"What  if  they  were?"  she  cried.  "Let's  forget 
about  the  silly  thing.  Let's  be  happy!"  She  ran 
across  to  him,  her  face  transfigured  by  a  flashing 
softness.  She  tried  to  put  her  arms  around  his 
neck.  "Be  patient  with  me!"  she  pleaded.  "Rich- 
ard, love  me  a  little.  I  need  it  so  much."  He  dis- 
engaged himself  from  her  arms,  but  not  unkindly. 

"I  am  trying  to  think,"  he  said.  "The  bank  will 
be  closed." 

"What?" 

He  turned  on  her  brusquely.  "Don't  keep  say- 
ing, 'What ?'  but  listen;  it's  a  habit  you're  getting." 

She  shrank,  conscience-stricken.  He  drew  a  chair 
to  the  table,  and  sat  down,  resting  his  stem  young 
forehead  on  his  hands. 

"I  don't  want  to  say  hard  things,  things  I  shall 
regret.  I  want  to  make  every  allowance.  You 
don't  see  things  as  I  do;  we  haven't  been  taught 
alike.  This  life  of  ours  isn't  possible,  Fortunata. 
You  must  see,  for  you  are  clever,  that  we  can't  go 
on  in  this  way." 

His  justice  hurt  her  more  than  the  bitterest  up- 
braidings.  She  began  to  weep,  her  head  on  her 
arms. 

"I  am  very  unhappy!"  she  sobbed. 

"Why — ^why  weren't  you  straight  with  me,  Fort- 
imata?"  He  rose  and  from  the  bookcase  took  a 
time-table.  "A  train  leaves  for  Pisa  at  8.15 — or, 
no,  better,  at  7.25.  Spalding  writes  me  that  the 
land  is  being  valued.  I  ought  to  be  there.  I  shall 
be  in  Genoa  day  after  to-morrow,  and  in  England 
by  Wednesday.  I  want  to  be  alone.  I  must 
think." 

324 


FORTUNATA 

She  understood  only  that  he  was  going.  She 
flared  up. 

"You  are  going  to  your  mother  to  tell  her  your 
troubles.  For  shame,  Richard! — a  big,  grown-up 
man  like  you." 

"This  is  a  trouble  I  shall  tell  no  one.  You  are 
right,  I  am  big  enough  to  bear  it  alone." 

"So  I  am  a  trouble?"  she  said,  beginning  to  weep 
again.  "Yes,  I  am  a  curse,  and  a  jettatura,  too. 
Be  advised,  Richard,  and  get  a  separation,  a  divorce. 
There  is  no  happiness  for  us." 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  look  which  she  never 
forgot. 

"If  I  didn't  love  you  in  this  imbecile  fashion,  I 
should  know  what  to  do." 

"Take  me  with  you!"  she  pleaded.  "Don't  leave 
me  here!  I  sha'n't  be  any  trouble  to  you.  Dick, 
don't  leave  me  here!" 

"Calm  yourself,  Fortunata,"  he  said,  coldly. 
"You  must  not  give  way  to  these  Italian  exaggera- 
tions." He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "I  have  a  din- 
ner at  eight.  There  is  just  time  to  tell  Melville 
what  to  pack.  I  must  write  that  check  for  your 
aunt.  I  shall  be  home  late  and  up  before  six,  so  I'll 
say  good-bye  now," 

"Then  you  won't  take  me?" 

"No." 

She  dried  her  eyes,  and  putting  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  looked  at  him. 

"I  don't  want  ever  to  forget  you.  I  want  to  re- 
member every  line  in  your  face." 

"It's  quarter  after  seven,"  he  said. 

"Good-bye,  then,  Richard." 
325 


FORTUNATA 

"Good-bye,"  he  answered,  awkwardly,  and  he 
brushed  past  her. 

Her  lips  moved,  as  though  to  speak,  and  in  the 
doorway  he  turned.  She  shook  her  head,  and  he 
went  out. 

As  he  was  dressing,  "Hang  it  all!"  he  thought. 
"We'll  go  together."  He  threw  on  a  dressing-gown 
and  went  to  the  door;  then  pride  surged  up.  "  No,  I 
have  no  will  where  she  is  concerned."  He  opened 
the  window  and  looked  out.  The  moon  was  like  a 
feather,  and  seemed  too  frail  for  the  immensity  of 
the  sky. 

Fortunata  the  next  morning  walked  into  her  aunt's 
study.  The  Princess  and  Eugenio  were  playing  at 
cribbage.  The  fickle  old  lady  had  lately  taken  her 
nephew  into  favor. 

"Good-morning,  Princess,"  said  Fortunata.  "You 
thought  I'd  be  disagreeable,  but  I  won't.  I  want 
my  room.  I  want  to  stay  here.  Lord  Trevers's 
lawyer  will  send  you  a  check.  It  will  serve  for  my 
board.     Good-morning,  Eugenio." 

The  Princess  moved  her  lips  as  though  speaking, 
but  uttered  never  a  word.  Fortunata  nodded, 
smiled,  and  went  out.  Her  Excellency  nudged 
Eugenio. 

"He's  left  her.  Some  of  her  signatures  have 
cropped  up.  Her  flirtations;  her  lies  have  made 
my  cheeks  bum,  tough  as  they  are.  She's  changed 
this  last  year;  I  hardly  know  her." 

"I  wonder  if  she's  happy?" 

"Pshaw!  my  boy,  who  is?  She  has  melancholia. 
Her  father  had  it  before  her,  and  went  about  as 
yellow  as  a  Dutch  cheese.     There's  another  trouble 

326 


FORTUNATA 

— she's  getting  deaf.  Oh,  I'm  sure  of  it.  Haven't 
you  noticed  how  one  has  to  bawl  at  her?" 

Eugenio  was  shocked.  "It  must  be  hereditary! 
It  might  begin  with  me  at  any  moment!" 

"I  suspected  before,  I  am  sure  now,"  continued 
the  Princess.  "I  pretended  to  speak,  and  she  made 
beUeve  she  heard  me.  She  has  plenty  of  courage. 
I  always  did  like  that  girl." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  doctor  had  made  a  final  examination  of  Fort- 
unata's  ears.  Afterward  he  had  helped  her  on 
with  her  jacket  in  silence.  She  looked  at  him  out  of 
the  comer  of  her  eyes.  He  was  wiping  his  eye- 
glasses, and  his  face  was  averted. 

"Well?"  she  asked,  and  it  seemed  that  her  heart 
must  break  through  her  breast. 

He  turned,  and  she  saw  the  pity  in  his  eyes.  She 
knew  that  he  was  searching  for  gentle  words,  trying 
to  deaden  the  blow. 

"I  understand,"  she  said.  "You  needn't  tell 
me."  She  turned  so  pale  that  the  doctor  feared 
she  might  faint. 

He  bent  over  her,  murmuring  consoling  platitudes. 
"More  wonderful  things  have  happened,  the  age  of 
miracles  is  not  past." 

She  gave  him  one  of  her  sudden  smiles,  transform- 
ing her  worn  little  face. 

"Ah,  miracles!  They  are  so  rare.  I  have  never 
met  with  one."  She  seemed  quite  composed,  and 
went  out  into  the  street. 

"Wonderful!"  mused  the  physician,  as  he  watched 
her  slim  yotmg  back  disappear  at  the  turning,  "  how 
quickly  youth  throws  off  its  burdens  " — and  he  went 
back  to  his  great  work  on  heredity. 

At  home  a  letter  was  on  the  table,  a  letter  from 
328 


FORTUNATA 

Richard.  It  was  the  handwriting  of  a  boy.  He  was 
well,  and  hoped  she  was  the  same.  He  told  her  of 
the  crops  with  the  precision  of  a  farmer's  almanac. 
"To-day  we  had  rain" — yet  here  she  was  breaking 
her  heart! 

She  brooded  over  these  letters,  expressions  of  a 
commonplace  mind,  read  and  re-read  them.  Richard 
wrote  that  he  would  return  within  a  week.  The 
service  needed  him.  That  he  still  loved  her,  he 
complained,  as  though  of  ill  health  or  of  misfortune. 
He  loved  her  for  reasons  so  transient;  she  adored 
him  because  of  nothing,  and  in  spite  of  everything! 

Time  was  creeping  on ;  the  still  hours  of  midnight 
were  approaching.  In  the  quiet  room  the  clock's 
voice  was  portentous,  and  even  Fortunata  heard 
the  brazen  tick-tack.  Earlier  in  the  evening  Hor- 
tense  had  brought  in  a  large  cardboard  box  con- 
taining a  new  dress.  With  what  anticipation  had 
Fortunata  designed  this  very  dress.  And  now — 
Slowly,  she  came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  crossed  her 
arms  upon  it  and  rested  her  chin  on  her  hands.  A 
deathly  nausea  crept  over  her.  Her  hands,  that 
were  clasped  together,  turned  cold  as  stone,  and  the 
utter  indifference  that  all  afternoon  had  so  be- 
numbed her  heart  fell  from  her  as  a  cloak.  The 
rays  of  the  lamp  fell  upon  her  dressing-table;  they 
gleamed  upon  a  group  of  bottles — bottles  of  per- 
fume, toilet  preparations,  all  manner  of  feminine 
vanities.  In  particular  was  she  arrested  by  the 
sinister  glow  of  a  dwarfish  flask  of  thick  white  glass. 
Like  a  fiery  opal  it  burnt.  The  flame  seemed  to 
possess  hypnotic  power,  and  reluctantly  Fortunata 
was  drawn  toward  it.     With  both  hands  she  lifted 

329 


FORTUNATA 

the  flask  from  the  table  and  held  it  before  her  at 
arm's-length.     It  was  chloral  ready  for  use. 

This,  thought  she,  is  the  key  that  can  unlock  my 
prison. 

For  the  first  time  Death  appeared  as  a  possibility. 
He  came  unattended  by  horrors,  rather  as  the  natural 
answer  to  a  puzzling  question  long  and  arduously 
sought  after,  the  solution  of  the  problem  in  which 
her  poor  life  had  become  entangled. 

Still  holding  the  flask  in  her  hands,  she  continued 
to  gaze  into  the  iridescent  liquid.  It  trembled;  it 
shivered,  as  glows  the  crystal  in  which  the  Sibyl 
reads  the  future.  Trivial  incidents  of  her  childhood 
came  back  to  her,  scenes  and  phases  of  her  life,  for- 
gotten faces,  intonations  of  voices  long  unheard — 
they  passed,  these  echoes  of  impression,  with  the 
rapidity  of  shadows  thrown  by  a  magic  lantern  on 
a  sheet.  Again  she  recalled  certain  sensations  of 
her  earliest  years,  tremors  of  reasonless  joy  now  long 
outgrown.  Again  she  heard  the  volley  of  notes,  the 
contending  piano  practice  that  had  resounded 
through  the  bare  corridors  of  the  school  and  mingled 
with  the  odor  of  whitewash.  Again  she  felt  the  per- 
fume of  lilac  that  heralds  the  glorious  approach  of 
the  Italian  spring.  In  this  fleeting  panorama  of  life 
was  every  heart-beat  that  had  made  up  her  exist- 
ence, and  she  found  to  her  infinite  surprise  that 
never  had  she  been  really  happy.  Dearest  had  been 
the  promises  of  hope,  of  which  many,  alas!  had 
never  been  fulfilled.  Her  forehead  sank  into  her 
hands.  She  had  pursued  the  phantom  of  success, 
believing  that  it  possessed  the  gift  of  joy,  with  what 
perseverance  she  alone  knew.     Of  what  avail  now 

330 


FORTUNATA 

were  her  strivings,  her  unconquerable  hopes,  her  all- 
devouring  ambition  ?  A  month  ago  she  had  grasped 
success;  life  had  held  every  treasure — what  might 
she  not  have  accomplished  with  money,  position, 
talent,  beauty;  above  all,  with  an  irresistible  charm, 
so  that  all  she  smiled  on  were  forced  to  love  her! 
Then  had  come  this  hideous  calamity,  and  at  one 
blow  she  was  stricken  to  the  ground,  torn  from 
everything,  and  left  destitute. 

She  had  been  to  the  wrong  school — a  school  for 
the  weak  who  hope  to  get  through  life  without  a 
pang.  She  had  never  learned  that  this  poor, 
crippled  flesh  is  not  everything.  The  spirit  is  bom 
in  anguish,  nurtured  in  tears.  Sorrow  is  the  whet- 
stone of  the  soul,  and  whether  there  be  a  captain  or 
the  ranks  stand  alone,  the  right  kind  of  soldier  does 
not  give  up  his  post. 

She  started,  and  her  eyes  again  sought  the  flask. 

For  her  purpose  there  was  not  enough  chloral. 
Her  mother,  she  remembered,  had  more.  She  laid 
aside  the  flask,  rose  and  went  into  the  hall.  There 
was  a  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  she  became  aware  of 
a  far-off  piping,  like  the  plaintive  trills  of  a  pastoral 
flute.  Through  the  echoing  passages  she  walked 
rapidly,  with  her  customary  light,  firm  step,  her 
head  held  high,  with  a  brave  bearing.  Her  shadow 
ran  on  before  her  with  the  exaggerated  lines  of  a 
poster.  At  her  mother's  room  she  knocked.  There 
was  no  answer.  With  her  hand  and  knee  she  pushed 
open  the  door.  The  only  light,  that  of  the  fire, 
caressed  the  sway-backed  furniture,  subduing  the 
upholsterer's  loud  pompadour  pink.  The  air  held  a 
flavor  of  perfume,  of  warmth,  of  luxury.     Under  the 

33-^ 


FORTUNATA 

tent-like  canopy  of  the  bed  the  Contessa  had  already 
retired.  She  sat  propped  up  by  pillows,  against 
whose  billowy  whiteness  was  defined  her  small, 
cone-shaped  head.  Her  face  wore  an  expression  of 
extreme  discomfiture. 

"I  have  come  to  say  good-night  to  you,  mother." 

On  seeing  her  daughter  standing  in  the  doorway, 
straight  and  very  pale,  the  Contessa  exclaimed: 
"Something  dreadful  has  happened!  My  bracelet, 
the  one  of  which  I  was  so  fond — set  in  sapphires  and 
pearls — is  lost,  completely  disappeared.  We  have 
looked  for  it  everywhere — impossible  to  find  it." 

Fortunata  gave  no  answer,  but  her  eyes  shone 
with  a  strange  light,  and  a  pity  almost  maternal 
stirred  in  her.  Now  that  it  was  too  late,  now  that 
she  tasted  the  dust,  she  knew  remorse.  Her  poor 
mother!  Always  consuming  her  heart  in  nothing- 
ness, while  her  daughter,  by  right  her  strength  and 
support,  had  not  given  her  even  a  natural  affection, 
merely  a  haphazard  caress  when  something  was  to 
be  gained,  or  a  careless  kiss  bestowed  by  chance  on 
nose  or  eyebrow. 

"Mother,  you  should  not  let  these  trivial  daily 
things  worry  you  so.  Believe  me,  they  are  not 
worth  it."     The  Contessa  signalled  a  feeble  reproof. 

"You  speak  very  foolishly.  It  was  the  last  thing 
your  father  gave  me.  Another  link  with  the  past 
is  gone." 

Fortimata's  heart  was  shot  with  a  sudden,  an  all- 
piercing  pity.  She  took  the  thin  hand  with  its 
swollen  veins  and  held  it  a  moment  lightly  against 
her  lips. 

"Oh,  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  have  mercy  on  me!" 
332 


FORTUNATA 

She  stood  as  though  arrested,  as  though  a  voice, 
long  dead,  had  called  her,  as  though  a  forerunner  to 
herself  in  this  world  of  sorrows  had  spoken. 

With  bowed  head  Fortunata  left  the  room.  The 
strength  was  all  at  once  gone  from  her,  and  she 
could  scarcely  drag  herself  along.  Her  dark  shadow 
flvmg  out  before  her,  trembled,  as  in  her  breast 
trembled  her  tormented  heart. 

On  reaching  her  room  she  took  a  drinking-glass 
of  finest  workmanship  from  the  mantelpiece,  where 
it  had  stood  for  years  among  her  treasured  pos- 
sessions. She  placed  it  on  the  table  near  the  bed, 
and  into  it  measured  out  the  chloral.  This  she  did 
without  haste,  carefully,  deliberately. 

She  was  overwhelmed  with  weariness,  as  though 
all  her  life  long  she  had  never  rested.  Above  all, 
she  was  disheartened,  like  a  traveller  who  has  run 
miles  to  see  a  great  procession  and  comes  too  late, 
when  the  pageant  has  already  passed.  Slowly  she 
went  to  the  window,  dragging  her  feet  as  stumble 
the  mortally  wounded.  She  leaned  against  the 
frame,  and  her  gaze  strayed  out  into  the  blackness, 
into  the  depths  of  the  night. 

It  was  a  divine  night,  with  no  moon  but  a  legion 
of  stars — constellations,  planets  burning  in  space. 
They  appeared  like  an  army:  orderly,  majestic,  like 
the  works  of  a  wise  Providence.  On  such  a  night 
one  might  convert  an  atheist.  The  garden,  warmed 
all  day  by  the  June  sun,  sent  up  a  penetrating  odor 
of  box,  while  faintly,  very  faintly,  from  the  Church 
of  Gesu,  across  the  way,  came  the  ringing  of  bells. 
All  at  once  the  moon  rose,  glorious,  full,  resplen- 
dent.    The  golden  globe  mounted  with  dignity,  as 

333 


FORTUNATA 

though  intent  on  reaching  the  topmost  heaven ;  be- 
low, the  transfigured  garden  lay  flooded  in  light,  the 
cypresses  cast  black  shadows,  and  the  birds  awak- 
ened. Through  the  night  drifted  a  fragrance  too 
faint  to  be  named,  stirring  the  senses  like  a  caress. 
Suddenly  Fortunata's  thirst  for  life  sprang  up,  the 
unquenchable  thirst  of  her  childhood  for  everything 
fleeting  and  lovely.  There  stirred  in  her  a  tremor 
of  anticipated  joy,  one  of  those  promises  which  the 
heart  cannot  resign.  Great  burning  tears  rose  in 
her  eyes;  the  garden  grew  blurred,  and  the  close- 
cropped  cypresses,  with  their  black  shadows,  seemed 
awry. 

Slowly  she  turned  away  and  began  to  undress. 
She  folded  her  clothes  as  she  had  been  taught  when 
a  child.  Her  new  dress,  in  which  she  had  pictured 
herself,  she  hung  in  the  wardrobe  with  care,  as 
though  intending  to  wear  it  on  the  morrow.  She 
arranged  her  books,  papers,  and  ornaments.  These 
futile  duties,  gone  through  with  night  after  night 
for  a  lifetime,  soothed  her  as  might  some  ceremony 
oft  repeated,  grown  monotonous  and  dear.  She 
lingered  over  these  details  a  little,  yet  not  too  long, 
for  fear  lest  cowardice  should  enter  into  her  heart. 
When  ready  for  bed  she  brushed  her  long  hair,  and 
so  strong  is  habit  that  to-night,  as  always,  she 
looked  into  the  mirror.  She  felt  as  though  behold- 
ing the  face  of  a  stranger — a  pale  child,  seemingly 
not  more  than  sixteen  or  seventeen,  whose  fair  hair, 
parted  and  falling  on  her  shoulders,  contrasted  with 
her  dark,  wistful  eyes.  These  eyes,  she  thought, 
will  never  look  again  into  a  human  face  with  the 
spark  of  recognition,  and  she  was  moved  to  a  pro- 

334 


FORTUNATA 

found  pity,  not  so  much  for  herself  as  for  this  youth- 
ful phantom.  Long  and  searchingly  she  gazed  at 
her  reflection.  She  understood  now  why  when  she 
had  lied  she  had  been  so  readily  believed.  Singular 
that  her  egoism  and  lack  of  charity  had  left  no 
imprint ! 

Her  courage  was  failing,  and  she  lay  down  on  the 
bed.  It  was  the  bed  of  her  girlhood,  to  which, 
night  after  night,  she  had  gone  so  gladly  from  balls 
and  dances,  with  the  last  waltz  ringing  in  her  ears. 

The  glass  beside  her  with  its  fatal  drug  seemed  to 
say,  "There  is  no  escape!"  She  raised  it,  and  as 
the  cold  brim  touched  her  lips,  a  shudder  passed 
through  her.  Slowly  she  drank  and  put  the  glass 
down  empty.  Still  her  fingers  lingered  about  it. 
It  had  been  given  to  her  years  before  by  a  man  who 
had  loved  her.  He  had  said,  "Whenever  you  drink 
from  this,  remember  me."  This  is  the  last  thing  I 
shall  ever  touch,  she  thought. 

A  gust  of  air,  fragrant  from  the  garden,  swung 
one  of  the  windows  closed,  and  the  candle  flame,  as 
though  blown  already  by  the  breath  of  coming 
Death,  went  out.  To  these  walls  now  no  longer 
seen,  yet  well  imagined,  to  everything  that  she  had 
loved,  to  those  eyes  that  had  once  looked  tenderly 
upon  her,  Fortunata  flung  wide  her  arms  and  cried, 
"Addio!" 


THE    END 


H»;wiSi''f2'0NAL 


A     000 


,i™';RVFAciL/rv 


127  147 


